Haunted
by Ellenyx
Summary: A year after the loss of his beloved wife Mary, John is evicted from his home and forced to move in with his sister Harriet. After a month he finds a nice little house along the outskirts of Bristol by the Sand Bay. But he won't be living alone. Pairings: Johnlock. Sex in future chapters. One shot story. Please review if you like it!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sky loomed overhead, gray and menacing as droplets fell from the heavens. He stood vacantly beneath the dismal clouds, the sound of the heavy rain pittering against the cloth canvas of his umbrella sounding like a drumming knoll in the back of his mind as his eyes gazed across the fancy writing on the front of the gray marble in front of him, turning an almost black color as the water hit it's hard surface.

Mary Watson

1980-2012

His heart heaved a bit, his fingers numb against the chilled air. How many times did he come here? How many times did he dress up in his best clothes and cart an umbrella just to stand for countless hours in the rain and cold, staring at the same stone?

He adverted his eyes, his tongue gliding across his dry lips. He wondered what she would have said if she saw him. No, he knew what she would say. She would tell him that he needed to move on, that he needed to stop tormenting himself and attempt to move on with his life, but he could. He felt like he was trapped in an infinite loop. Getting up, showering, getting dressed and coming here to see her. For an entire year, that's all he'd done; it wasn't a surprise to him when he lost his job four months prior.

Swallowing hard he looked up at the sky, praying that she was there, that she was looking down over him, but deep down inside, he knew she wasn't. Removing his other wind bitten hand from his pocket he reached up, closing the umbrella and tucking it away under his arm. He closed his eyes against the rain, letting the freezing droplets his his cheeks and forehead with their freezing bite. It was the first real sensation he'd felt since the death of his beloved wife. Perhaps it was a sign that some change was going to happen, and it sent a flood of relief through him as he opened his eyes again.

"I'll visit you soon." He said, looking down at the headstone. Carefully he stepped forward, making sure not to tread where she would be laying and pressed his lips to the top of the stone. He held it there for a minute, making sure his kiss would travel throughout the grave to her before pulling away, making his way back to where he'd parked his car. He spared a single glance back before climbing in and pulling away, heading for home.

He didn't play music in the car as he drove, he stopped doing that when Mary had died. Every time he'd played it a song that reminded him of her would play. It was too much to bare, so he turned it off.

He didn't look at the scenery as he drove, only keeping his eye on the traffic as he emerged into the busier parts of the city. No glances at the shops, or the people. No gazing at the boats over the River Thames as he drove along it's edge. Instead he kept his eyes on the road ahead as he made his way through the city to his home.

He pulled into the driveway and climbed out, running his hand through his cold, damp hair. He shut the door behind him and made his way up the walkway and to the front door but stopped. Taped on the door was a little white sheet of paper that held the words "Eviction Notice." He sighed, his teeth gritting across his bottom lip as he dragged a hand down his face. He was surprised that his landlord had let him go this long without paying the rent, but still, he was upset. Grabbing the piece of paper he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Placing the paper on the counter top he debated on whether or not he should pack up and get things squared away to find a new place to live, or if he should pay his landlord back. Both him and Mary paid the rent on the place, it was expensive to dish it out of pocket alone, and knowing his landlord he would be expecting him to pay it back in full. John couldn't do that.

Pushing away from the counter he turned and made his way for his bedroom, starting to pack up his things. He had already started a few months earlier -packing up the stuff that reminded him of Mary to be put in storage- but now it seemed like his plans had changed, and his landlord was kind enough to give him a couple of weeks to do so.

John didn't have much stuff, most of it was big -like his bed and his sofa and television. He was able to pack up most of his clothes and randoms in a couple of hours. Now all he had to do was find a place to live until he could get a job.

Sitting on the foot of the bed him and Mary once shared together, he fished his phone from his pocket and carefully thumbed it, flipping it over and over again in his hand. The name _Harry_ kept popping up, flashing in his face. He didn't want to call his sister. He didn't want to talk to her right now, but he only had a couple of weeks left to live in his home and he needed somewhere to go. At least until he found himself a job and an affordable place to live out on his own.

He stared at the phone for a long moment, his mind going blank. Then with a defeated sigh he thumbed through the phone book and clicked on Harriet's name. The phone rang once or twice before he actually put it to his ear, waiting for her to pick up -which was on the third or fourth ring.

"Hello?" She greeted into the phone, the sound of running water in the background. Her lack of _Hi John_ was an indication that she actually didn't look at the caller I.D before answering. John chewed on his bottom lip a bit, his elbows rested against his legs as he looked around the mostly empty bedroom. It's cream colored walls and white carpet looking dull in the gray lighting from the lack of sun.

"Hi, Harriet." He greeted in return, trying to hide the defeated tone in his voice. This had been the first time since Mary's funeral that he'd spoken to her and the guilt for avoiding her was beginning to creep back in.

"John!" She shouted, shocked to hear from her brother on his own accord. "How are you? Is everything alright?" She questioned, turning the water off. The sound of a metal spoon clanking to the inside of a cup caught his attention.

"Not really." He rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What's wrong?" She questioned, everything falling silent on her end.

"I'm losing my house." He muttered in return, his guilt turning into embarrassment as he admitted his situation.

"Uh oh."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I hate having to ask you for this...but...you wouldn't happen to have a room available, would you?" He rests his chin on his hand, his fingers pressed against his lips as he waited for her to answer.

"Oh, of course! Clara and I are taking a bit of a break from each other so it'll just be you and I. It's not a heated fight just...I said some stupid things and she went to visit her mother. You know." She replied.

"Yeah, I know how it is." He agreed, his eyes closing. He didn't want to be there if her and Clara were in an argument, but he didn't have a choice. "I'll start sending things your way. See you in a couple of days."

"Alright," He carefully pulled the phone away from his ear but stopped when she spoke, hollering a bit. "Oh, and John!" He put the phone back to his ear, his forehead crinkled, hoping he didn't accidentally hang up on her. "I'm really glad to hear from you." And with that, she hung up, leaving him baffled on the other end of the phone.

Swallowing hard he pulled the phone from his ear and hit the end button just to be sure. Looking up he rested his eyes on the empty walls that used to have portraits on them, and the dresser that used to hold Mary's Jewelry and small knickknacks, and the end stand that once held two alarm clocks on his side of the bed so she would have an excuse to reach over him and plant a kiss on the side of his head as she turned it off.

He choked back the tears, blinking rapidly against them. Pushing himself to his feet he left the bedroom and made his way downstairs. Now that he had his living situation out of the way for now, it was time to get back onto his normal schedule that he'd followed religiously for the past year.

Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a glass he poured himself a drink and slugged it down, the burn welcoming. It was going to be a long couple weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It took a few trips back and forth from Bristol to Westminster, carting his belongings too and from Harry's house. On the first trip, he was surprised to have been met by Clara with open arms. He smiled as he climbed out of the moving truck and hugged his sister in law tightly, swaying back and forth a bit. As Clara moved away, Harry moved in to claim a hug from her brother as well, kissing the side of his head.

"We have the room all set up for you." She said, resting her chin on his shoulder as she held onto him. It had been a year without seeing or hearing from him. She'd been worried that he'd done something stupid in the midst of his grieving and ended up killing himself. He had no idea just how relieved she was.

"Ok, thank you." He replied back, his chin resting on her shoulder as well. Although he had made it his point not to call her, now that he actually had, he felt a bit better. But just like every time something made him happy, he didn't expect it to last long. After a few moments they pulled away, looking at each other without saying a word. Turning he picked up some of his bags as Harry did and they carried them into the house. "So, Clara's still here." He mused after they entered the house, making sure his sister in law was out of earshot.

"Yeah, after you called I couldn't help but call her. She wanted to see you so she came back." Harry replied, carrying his stuff upstairs. John followed her, doubling up on his belongings to cut down on the number of trips.

"That's good." John agreed as he reached the top of the stairs. He looked around the hallway, the photos that they'd had had been removed -possibly during a fight or something. He bit his lip, looking at his sister as she dragged his stuff down the hall and into the spare guest room. There was already a bed and a dresser in there. It was just enough for him to get comfortable, though he wasn't planning on living there long. "Do you know of any job openings around?" He asked as he followed her.

"John," She turned after putting his stuff on the floor. She watched him enter after, putting his belongings in the corner so they wouldn't take up space. He carefully opened his suitcase, pulling out some of his clothes. He didn't waste much time as he stuff them into the large 5 drawer, oak dresser pushed up against the wall. When she didn't say anything he stopped, looking up at her.

"Hm?" His eyebrows raised before dropping again, catching an expression that concerned her. She looked exhausted and worried, but there was something else. "Harry?"

"You don't have to run right out and find a job you know." She turned, looking away from him as she started rummaging through his belongings, looking for more clothes. "You can relax a little while. Try to...watch out for yourself before you throw yourself back out there to the wolves." She didn't look up at him, her thin light brown hair falling over her shoulders.

Harriet had always been a pretty girl. Pale with light brown hair in the summer, and dark brown in the winter. Her blue eyes were much more vibrant than his and she was thin. She didn't have to work to be thin either. She dressed professionally in light blue button up shirts and black slacks. She never was one for heels, always flats or sneakers. Rarely did she ever wear dresses. Growing up he had to admit John had teased her for being flat -sporting only an A cup for most of her life, now only having a smaller B- but she was well proportioned. Until you got to her back side. Her ass always had been and probably always will be large.

"Oh, no I know." He turned, tucking his clothes away into the dresser. "I just...I want to get it over with. If I start now I might have one in a few months, you know?" He forced a chuckle. She stopped, looking at him, her lips pressed in a concerned manner.

"Come here." She grabbed his bags she'd placed on the bed and laid them on the floor. He stopped, looking at her confused until she motioned him closer with a swish of her hand. Standing stiffly he walked over and sat on the bed beside her. "Listen, I know that you're going to disapprove of this, but Mary set up this...account." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "She said that if anything happened to her that I was to take you and get you access to this account." She grabbed his hand, pulling it away from his face. He looked up at her, his jaw clenched tight. "She didn't let you know about it because she said that you would have told her not to even bother because nothing would happen. But she opened it just shortly after your honeymoon and every week she put 100 dollars into it, minimum. This was supposed to help you pay for anything you needed until you felt you could find work again."

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" John questioned, trying to keep a civil tone.

"Because you cut off all ties with me after the funeral John. Do you know how many times I called you?" She shot back. "I was worried sick, I thought you'd gone off and killed yourself, your money was the last thing on my mind especially not after my diagnosis-" She stopped, looking as if she'd said too much. She pinched her bottom lip in between her top and bottom teeth, looking down at her hands.

"Diagnosis?" John's forehead crinkled, his heart racing a bit. "What diagnosis?" She didn't look at him, keeping her head down. "Harry, what diagnosis?" He questioned, trying to keep his voice level and sturdy. He wasn't completely successful as his voice rose a bit, breaking.

"A week ago I began getting sick often. So I went to the hospital and they ran some tests." She forced a smile, looking up at the wall. "I have cancer. The tumors spread to my lung and my stomach but they can't find the primary tumor." She explained. "I start Chemo at the beginning of this week." He stared at her, feeling ice run through his veins. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. He had been ignoring her all of this time...he didn't even know.

"How is Clara handling it?" He questioned, his words muffled by his hands.

"She doesn't know." Harry admitted, resting her elbows on her legs. "We got into that argument about a month ago, we hadn't talked or seen each other much since then."

"So you didn't tell her?" John was surprised. "Harry, tell her! She's your wife for god's sake! Don't wait until you can't do anything about it to tell her!" He rose his voice a bit. Her head whipped around, looking back at the door to make sure that Clara hadn't heard before hissing.

"Shut up numbskull!" He realized that he'd been practically shouting and looked at her apologetically, also looking back at the door to see of Clara had heard it or not.

"Harry," John continued, his voice low. "If you tell her she'll understand why you've been so snippy. She'll blame the cancer for the argument you two had and this whole thing can end. Just tell her and spend as much time with her as possible." He insisted, his hand grabbing her shoulder. "Please, just...tell her." She looked up at him, seeing pain and fear in her eyes. Looking down she nodded, reaching up to rest her own hand on his.

"I'll tell her." She whispered finally. "But right now." She stood up and walked around the bed, heading for the door. "I need to contact the bank and see if they can't get you to claim that money." She looked back at him, resting her shoulder against the hard wood of the door frame.

"Just...how much is in there?" He asked, looking back at her curiously.

"They didn't send you a bank notice when you called the bank and told them she died?" Harry's forehead wrinkled, an eyebrow cocked. "They...didn't hand it over to you to claim?"

"No," He shook his head. "Or...maybe, I don't know. I probably threw the bank statement away." He put his face in his hands again, rubbing his eyes. She looked at him apologetically, her eyes dropping from him to the floor. She nodded.

"Alright, well, I'll try to get a total for you. Just...relax ok?" She pulled away from the door frame and turned on her heel, heading down the hallway. "Dinner will be done at six, wifi password is Benedict, same as always if you want to hook your laptop up." And with that she was gone. John sat there on the edge of the bed, his eyes focused on the wall. Harry was sick, that was why she looked so pale.

Groaning he laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt absolutely terrible for avoiding contact with her for so long, but in his defense how was he supposed to know that his sister had cancer? Yet again, it was that same thinking that landed Mary in a grave. He closed his eyes, his heart beginning to beat again, wrenching in his chest as he thought back to his wife. He wished that he could have done something for her. Anything.

He felt tears start to well up behind his eyelids, and that was when he decided to get up. He needed to keep himself occupied, if he didn't he'd end up a sobbing mess in a borrowed bedroom. And _that_ would be embarrassing.

Walking over to his belongings he began rummaging through his bags. Finding his laptop cord he pulled it out then went over to his laptop bag. Pulling it out he placed it on a small desk on the opposite side of the room and plugged it in. He turned and began putting his clothes away as the laptop turned on, going through it's updates and configurations so that by the time he was done it would be ready to go.

Pulling out the chair he sat at his laptop and brought up his browser. His blog was saved as his homepage. The last thing he had updated was the story of the death of Mary. For a year his blog had gone unattended, no updates, no comments or messages were read. He'd completely ignored them. Biting his lip he went to Google's main page and started looking for real-estate. He didn't want a house that was too big, but he didn't want a studio flat located in the city. He wanted to be kind of secluded, out and alone where no one would bother him, but not so far out that he would have to dive for hours to get to civilization.

After searching for a couple of hours without much luck he closed his laptop and stood up, heading downstairs to socialize. He took the stairs carefully, not in any hurry, his eyes gliding across the paintings used to decorate the walls. When his feet hit the stairs he turned. The living room was empty, but the sound of both Clara's and voice were heard from the kitchen, the smell of dinner cooking reaching his nose. Cabbage rolls he guessed. It was always what Harriet made for him when either one of them visited the other.

"How long is John staying for?" Clara asked, sitting at the table sipping at her coffee. She had strawberry blonde hair and freckles. She was a petite girl, shorter than he was but thicker than Harry. Full figured? She had brown eyes and a charming smile. She wore more dresses than pants, and what she wore was normally very light in color and lacy. Neither of them looked like a lesbian, but that was the fault of stereotyping. Someone who looked like a lesbian could hate women, and a man who looked gay could be straight. And that was perfectly ok.

"As long as he wants I guess." Harry said from the stove, whipping up some vegetables. A loaf of bread was cooking in the oven. John couldn't help but smile. Before Harry had met Clara she never showed any interest in cooking. It was always canned soups and restaurants. Instant meals. Clara fancied a sit down at home to going out and eating. She was always more fond of bonding over a home cooked meal. It was nice to see Harry had learned something from her. "He seems eager to leave though." Harry added, pulling away from the stove to wash off her utensils she no longer needed. "At least if he finds a place close to here we can visit more."

"And you're welcome to." John spoke up. Both of the girls turned, looking back at him shocked but smiled.

"Eavesdropping? Isn't that rude?" Harry tossed a hand towel at him, grinning.

"It's not eavesdropping if the person who's talking is talking loud enough for the neighbors to hear." He smiled, pulling the hand towel off of his shoulder and folding it up. He placed it on the island behind Harry and leaned against it.

"So I hear you're looking for a house?" Clara asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Yes," John replied, looking at her.

"What kind are you looking for?" She placed her cup on the table, using a dainty finger to wipe at the bit that dripped from her lip and threatened to make a run down her chin and stain either the white cloth tablecloth or her white blouse.

"Something a little bigger than a flat, so I can put my furniture in, but something not as large as my old place." He grabbed one of the oak chairs and pulled it out. He sat down, his knees cracking stiffly. He wanted a drink but he knew Clara didn't like it when Harry drank, and he didn't want to encourage his sister.

"In Bristol or no?" She questioned, her hands rested on the table. Her brown eyes almost looked like an amber color and he found himself staring before snapping himself out of it.

"Hm? Oh!" He dragged his fingers across his mouth, pinching the corners of his mouth in, tugging at his bottom lip a bit. "Not in Bristol. The city is nice but I just...want quiet for now." He admitted. Clara nodded, understanding.

"Well, there's an old house that isn't in too bad of condition by the Sand Bay. It's about a 30 minute drive west of here. Quaint and cheap. No one's buying and the owner doesn't really want to keep paying taxes on it so it's up for sale." She explained, running her fingertip around the rim if her mug.

"Don't give John that house!" Harry turned, growling. It caught both John and Clara off guard.

"W-why not?" John looked up, his fingers weaving together, his tongue dragging across his dry lips. Seeing it, Clara stood and pushed her chair in before walking around the table. She slipped in behind Harry and grabbed a coffee mug, filling it for him. Harry moved out of the way so as not to bump Clara as she brought the full mug back to John.

"Harry thinks that house is haunted. A few years ago we looked into it as a beach home seeing how its right on the water, but she said that she couldn't help but feel as if someone was watching them." Clara said, handing him the cup. John thanked her, his forehead crinkling.

"Is that all?" John chuckled, looking back at his sister.

"No, that house used to belong to a detective in the early 1900's. It's said that she got too close to a person she was trying bring in, giving it away. One night the criminal snuck in a bludgeoned her, denting in half of her skull before tying her to the bed and catching the house on fire." She explained, her face dead serious as she told the story.

"And what was this detectives name?" John couldn't help but snicker.

"Cheryl something." Harry muttered, not appreciating the fact that she was being very serious about this and both her brother and her wife was busting her chops for it.

"So in a time period where women were fighting for their rights, a woman by the name of Cheryl lived alone on the edge of a large body of water and was a detective." He repeated as if trying to get every fact memorized.

"You know what? Screw you two." Harry grunted, turning her back on them.

"Harriet, listen I'm not trying to bust your bubble or anything, but that story is bollocks. Complete bollocks." He rested his elbows against the table. "The biggest thing that makes it bollocks is the fact that ghosts don't exist."

"No? Well how about we drive out sometime this week and we check out the place?" She looked at him, feeling this deep urge to prove him wrong.

"Sounds good to me." He grinned, looking at her, taking her offer gladly. Although he loved his sister, he enjoyed proving her wrong, and this would just be another one of those times.

And if all things went well, he might even get a new home from it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was Wednesday, his things were mostly unpacked. He didn't really mind spending the time with Harry and Clara, but since Harry had brought it up he had been excited to see the place.

Clara was the one to drive them. Turning off of the main road, they made their way through forest. A single pathway was worn from the main road into the line of trees. She took it slowly, careful not to bounce the car around too much. When they cleared to the opposite end they saw the house. It was an older house, mostly unpainted wood. It was a bit unnerving with it's ghostly appearance but John forced a smile. There was a car parked in the packy dirt patch that served as a driveway. A fairly decent sized garage was erected next to the house at the end of the drive.

"That must be Mr. Albott." Clara commented, looking at the car as a smartly dressed man climbed out. Mr. Albott looked to have been in his 40's. His dark hair starting to gray, but his blazer and slacks were ironed to perfection. Clara pulled up and parked the car. Letting it run for a few moments before turning it off.

Carefully pushing the door open, John climbed out of the vehicle, making sure as to not lose his footing in the slick earth beneath his feet.

"Ah, you must be Dr. Watson." The smartly dressed man walked forward, holding his hand out to shake it. John grabbed it, shaking it firmly.

"Please, call me John." John smiled. The man grinned, his eyes sparkling as he nodded.

"Carl," he replied. "You're here for a tour of the house?" He questioned, letting go. John wanted to be sarcastic and tell him no, he was just there to run naked aimlessly through the yard but settled with a friendly nod of the head as his eyes trailed off to the ocean. "Good!" He smiled. "Follow me."

Turning he made his way for the garage. Harry and Clara hesitated, exchanging a few words behind him before they followed. Getting to the garage, Carl grabbed the door and pushed it open, wasting no time in getting down to business.

"This garage was built in the early 1900's by a man named Phillip Welsh. It's sturdy, given it's old age. It doubled as a workshop and even as a medical clinic at one point in time, even though as medicine got better, the conditions in which were required to undergo medical procedures were updated." He explained. "There is plenty of room to park your car and plenty of shelf room and counter in case you need it for anything."

John looked around. It was an empty dirt floor garage, the dirt barren and packed down tight. It could fit two cars in it and looked very similar to that of a horse stable. Counters were put in, wrapping along the entire back side of the garage. To the far end there were a flight of stairs. His guess it lead to a second floor used for storage. "Not bad." John mused, looking around. He stopped seeing a couple electric lights. They seemed like a new edition.

As the cold blew in off of the ocean he couldn't help but notice how warm the garage was. It was as if it was insulated to withstand the long hours of work in the colder months.

"Shall we check out the house?" Carl questioned, a happy smile on his face. John looked at him, being pulled out of his vacancy. He gawked quietly before raising his eyebrows, shaking his head.

"Of course." Carl grinned and turned, making his way back past the doctor, heading out for the house. John followed along, flashing a quick smile at the girls behind him as he climbed the couple steps onto the porch. It was a wrap around that covered most of the side of the house overlooking the water. He liked it.

"Large two story house. The insides were reconstructed after a bad fire in the late 1800's, early 1900's." the man presented. It seemed as if they'd entered right into a living area. The floors newer looking that the outside.

"A fire?" John looked at him, remembering what Harry had told him a few days before.

"Oh," Carl stopped and looked at John, an expression on his face as if he were already regretting saying anything about it. "The person who bought this house from Mr. Welsh was killed in a fire that took place in this house." John nodded, looking around. It seemed a bit dark and bare. Large windows were covered in dust, spiderwebs knitted a veil across them. This house looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years, but what carpeting it had looked like it had been laid down at least within the last 15.

"Did the house have to be torn down?" John questioned, wondering if the shell was original and it was just gutted or if it had burnt to the ground.

"Oh no, the fire surprisingly was able to be put out with minimal damage to the outside or foundation. My father bought this 30 some odd years ago and rebuilt the inside. He added in electric, new floors, replaced the windows, better plumbing. When he died his real estate went to me." He replied. Then with a quick nudge of his head he motioned for John to follow him into another room. A kitchen, or so it seemed. It opened up into a large dining room, a large beautiful window over the sink that overlooked the water.

"Certainly plenty of room here." John mused in awe. "It's not haunted is it?" He snickered looking at Carl. Harry slapped his arm, not appreciating being made fun of in front of a stranger. Carl laughed, shaking his head, but there was a look in his eye that put John off a bit.

"No, oh no. No ghosts here I can assure you." There was a thud upstairs, making John, Carl and Clara jump. Harry screamed, her hand clasping over her heart. "Ah, I forgot to tell you. A cat keeps finding his way in. I've had to sweep a litter of kittens out once too many and find homes for them. Normally they stay in the garage, but on colder days they like being here. Warmer for them upstairs." Carl grimaced.

"So that was the cat?" John pointed upstairs, curiously. Carl just closed his eyes as if annoyed and nodded, lipping the words 'yeah.' Turning, John looked around, poking his head back in through the living room. "You don't mind if I go see, do you?" He pointed, walking backwards into the living room. The man shook his head, a smile on his face.

"Not at all, come on." He walked past John and the girls, leading him back through the good sized living area to another room just off the other side of it. It looked to be an office with quite a many books stuffed onto the book shelves. John stopped, his mouth agape as he looked at the shelves. "Ah, the study." Carl smiled. "All of these books were here when my father bought the place. Some were burnt along the edges but all completely useable." He explained. John looked around, then stopped, spotting a book on the floor. Walking over he picked it up and searched for it's original position, but it was impossible. All of the books were un-categorized. Something he'd have to fix when he moved in.

"Whoever lived here before sure didn't know how to organize." John shot, his nose crinkling from the dust. "I mean look at these...encyclopedias?" He looked at them confused. "Are these encyclopedias? Anyway, they're pulled away from their set. IAMSHERLOCK." He laughed a little. "Watch out Harry, the ghost is trying to communicate with encyclopedias." He teased looking back at his sister.

"Oh bugger off." She glared at him. Another thud sounded upstairs, making them jump, but this time, Harry kept quiet, her eyes closed.

"That's right." John pulled away, turning to face a door on the opposite side of the room. "Let's see what we can't do about that cat." He grinned. Turning Carl outstretched his arm, placing it behind John's shoulders. Pulling the door open he ushered the doctor upstairs.

The upstairs was about as big as the downstairs. A master bedroom, a large bathroom with a shower and a guest bedroom. And just off the guest room was a small guest office, both with a wrap around balcony that overlooked the water.

"Wow," John looked around in awe, then found out where the cat could have been coming from. The balcony door was open, the sheer white curtains fluttering in the ocean breeze. The rooms were beautiful.

"The master and the guest bedrooms were the first to be rebuilt." Carl explained. "My father aimed to make this look as similar to the original house as possible." He didn't move in past the door, leaning against the wall.

"It's a lovely-" he stopped, his eyes falling on a charred human skull. "Is that a skull?" He pointed, freezing a bit.

"Yeah, my father always went on about how genius the last owner of the house was. Apparently they worked together." The man explained, seeming lost in the history.

"Worked together?" He looked at him confused.

"My father was 50 when he had me, mum was 23. Died of old age my dad did. He went on and on about this place. 'Belonged to the most brilliant mind in London' said he." His eyes skimmed the room. "Shame, I find half of this stuff to be trash." He turned to head out the door, but the door slammed shut, catching his pinky. He gasped, pulling his hand back, finger going to his mouth. "Bloody wind!" He snarled.

"Are you alright?" John questioned, looking at him concerned.

"Fine," the man muttered after a minute. "Let's go then, I'll show you the master bedroom and the bathroom." He pushed the door open angrily, stomping out. John heard a light, whispering giggle behind him, a deeper voice. He looked back at Harry, a smile on his face. She was snickering too.

"Come on, our haunted tour is almost over." He motioned before stepping out into the hall, making his way to the master bedroom. It was a little bigger than the guest room with a walk in closet. Again there was a small study attached to it, both having a door leading to the balcony. He looked around. It was furnished similar to the other room except this one had a very large bed in it. It was old looking, kind of fancy. He walked over and sat on it. "Rather ritzy." He commented. It was a bit firm, but fluffy.

"Custom made mattress, the owner had a sleeping problem so he paid money to have a mattress made for him." Carl explained.

"Was the owner wealthy?" John looked at him curious, bouncing a bit on the bed. He felt the cloth of his pants tighten around his thighs, stopping him.

"Fairly wealthy. Came from a wealthy family. Took his share of his money to buy this house. Although he didn't buy much to put in it." Carl explained. John nodded, laying back on the bed.

"It's comfortable, but again, so is every Sealy mattress I've laid on." He smiled. "Not bad." He pushed himself up. Suddenly this small black cat barged in, head in the air as if looking for something. It rubbed on Carl first in which he booted it away gently. Obviously not a cat person. "Hey there." John smiled. The cat purred, running at him. It climbed up the side of the bed before forcing itself into John's lap. John laughed, petting it. "A stray? She's awfully friendly for being a stray." He itched her chin. In a matter of seconds the cat was purring loud enough to hear throughout the room.

"I don't know enough about it. All I know is it's always here and it always has kittens." He muttered. "Can I show you the rest of the house?" He hinted, wanting to get it over with. John noticed the sudden change in attitude. Could someone really hate a cat that much?

Grabbing the cat John put it on the bed and got up, hurrying to follow the man out of the room so they could look at the rest of the house. The cat followed, meowing at them, over and over again.

"Mouthy little girl." Harry commented, pulling her hair out of her face to look down and back at it. The cat sat in the middle of the hall, a few steps back, looking up as if looking at another person. Her smile faded a bit as she looked in the space the cat began circling. Swallowing she turned, hesitant to take her eyes off that spot as she followed.

"This is the bathroom. There's another one just like it downstairs just off the living room." Carl explained. There was a claw foot tub large enough for two people to lay beside each other and stretch out. A shower was fastened to it. It was a very open bathroom, large white. Older tile was laid down across the floor, the walls covered with white wallpaper. A large sink and counter pressed against the wall. There was plenty of space to store towels and belongings on the shelves along the wall and an entire wall was opened up. Completely made of glass with a door leading out onto the final stretch of balcony.

"Bathroom lacks a little privacy." John noted, looking out the window over the ocean. "I'll have to get some blinds for it." He muttered, watching the waves roll back and forth before looking back at Carl. "How much does this place cost?"

That was the question that brought a smile to the mans face. Someone was considering the place after years of people saying they didn't want to live in a place that was haunted. "127,000 pounds." John raised his eyebrows, whistling.

"Not bad for a place like this. The electricity has been replaced and the plumbing is good?" He looked back out the window.

"Everything is perfect. Passed inspection with flying colors, and if you need someone to repair something just call me. I know this place like the back of my hand." He smiled.

"Why's it so cheap then?" John asked finally, turning away from the distraction. The man frowned shaking his head.

"I'm paying taxes on a house no one is interested in and I'm not living in it. So I'm paying money on a place that's just sitting there." He admitted. John nodded, understanding.

"How soon do you want payment?" John turned looking at him. Harry's head snapped from the meowing cat, still walking circles in the hall to her brother. Her heart leapt. She didn't want John to move in, the house putting her off a bit. She didn't like it.

"Anytime you're ready." He smiled, extending an arm. John nodded, making his way out of the room, his eyes falling on the cat.

"What a mouthy cat." He smiled. Bending down he picked it up, holding it to his chest.

"Not very smart." Carl admitted, his nose crinkling. "Whoever owns it must be an idiot too-" turning the corner, his hand on the railing he tripped, falling down the flight of stairs. Harry and Clara ran over, all three of their jaws dropping as they watched the man roll and splay across the floor at the bottom.

"Oh my god!" John ran down the steps, holding the cat tight so he wouldn't bounce it too much. "Bloody hell are you alright?" He placed the cat on the floor before bending down, giving he man a quick look over. It didn't seem like he'd broken anything.

Carl groaned, starting to push himself up. John grabbed his arm, helping to haul him to his feet, brushing him off. "Damn," he groaned, his back cracking a bit as he straightened up. "Damn cat."

"But John was holding the cat." Harry said, sharing a look with Clara at the top of the stairs. Carl looked back at her, fixing his shirt before grunting.

"Then I guess I'm just clumsy. Anyway," he slowly hobbled to the desk, pulling out the chair to sit down. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out some folder documents. Unfolding them he grabbed a pen from his other pocket and started filling them out. "You can pay for it all at once or pay for it in installments." He looked at him. "However easy it is for you." John nodded, taking the papers once Carl had finished writing, reading them over.

"I have 3,000 available right now, I get access to the account my wife set up in a few days. It's on a hold. I can give you the rest then." John said, his eyes skimming across the documents to make sure there were no hidden deals. Carl nodded.

"Sounds good to me." He muttered. He watched, his fingers drumming on the desk a bit, his face twisting as the pain from falling down the stairs kicked in. Taking the pen John signed all of the necessary areas before sliding the papers and pen back to him. Smiling Carl took the pen and signed the final signature place. Tucking the pen back into his pocket he held out his hand, a warm smile on his face. "Welcome home, John Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

I am so sorry this chapter came out so poor. I really was in a funk when I was writing it and it seemed to rush, especially when I went back through to proof read. I originally write all of these chapters in notes on my iPod, so please excuse the lack of everything

P.S

Short masturbation scene. Ends quickly.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

John didn't move in right away, not feeling right about moving his stuff into a house that wasn't fully paid off. But when the house was paid for he began moving his belongings into the garage.

Although the house was nice, it was dark and littered with spiderwebs from one corner if the house to another. So he bought up as many cleaning supplies as necessary to prepare for his long task of making the house look liveable. The moment he got back he grabbed the broom and went to work, sweeping up the dust covered floors, then tackled the thick curtains of spiders webs that veiled the windows.

John was really quite surprised how much brighter the downstairs had seemed after the webs were removed and the floor was all swept. Grabbing a bottle of glass cleaner he began washing the windows of all of their watermarks, smudged finger prints and dust.

From there he grabbed a wash cloth and carefully washed the walls, making sure any dirt was clean from them only to reveal that they weren't just bare, they were wallpapered with white paper that had been scorched from the fire. He swallowed a bit, staring at the areas that were scorched and the other areas that were dyed by smoke. He'd have to paint over them. But later.

Once he was done washing the walls he went out and grabbed a few of his end stands and entertainment system. Carefully he dragged them in setting the end stands up against the longest wall and the entertainment system up against the opposite wall before he went back out to grab a few more things.

Searching through his belongings he grabbed some of his clothes and towels and brought them upstairs, putting half of the towels on the shelves in the bathroom then went to the master bedroom and placed his clothes on the bed. Turning around he saw that there was already a dresser, pressed up against the wall at the foot of the bed. A dusty vase sat on top of it with a ring of hard water stains. The dresser was a cherry wood, imported from what he could tell and intricately carved. He dragged a finger over the designs. Someone had taken good care of this piece of furniture.

Turning back to the bed he grabbed some of the clothes and folded them up, sliding them into the large spacious drawers. He hung up his suits and dress shirts and blazers inside of the walk in closet near the bedroom door then closed it.

Once he had put away all that he carried up he went back down to the garage, stuffing blankets, curtains and shower curtains into a large hamper and carted it all back upstairs. Stopping by the bathroom first he placed the curtain up around the claw-foot tub and dropped a bath mat just outside. Grabbing the curtains and curtain rods he turned to place them up over the glass wall of the bathroom but stopped. There was already a bar as to which he could hang his curtains on. Smiling he pulled the long bar down and slid his own in place before replacing the bar on their big brass hooks.

Grabbing the hamper he made his way to the bedroom and placed the folded blankets at the end of the bed. He would worry about dressing the bed later. Tucking the hamper into the corner of the room he made his way back downstairs and looked around the living room. He rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out what he should grab next. The only thing running through his mind was how dark it was. Then he remembered he had a few lamps tucked out in the garage. Turning he made his way out and grabbed them, bringing them back in.

He placed them on the floor and grabbed a container of Lysol wipes. Pulling a sheet from it he wiped all of the collected dust from his end stands that had stuck to the surface from the mist coming off of the ocean then tossed the sullied clothes into a trash bag he'd used to collect the dust and spiderwebs from the floor and windows. Outside, the sound of a car pulling up brought a smile to his face. Setting the lamps on the end stands he plugged them in and turned them on. The room lit up fantastically, but the burnt wallpaper made him grimace.

"Hey, I'm here!" Harry called, the sound of her shoes hitting the porch steps as she climbed the porch.

"About time." He called back, trying to keep his smile from impacting his tone of voice.

"Eat me." She replied walking in. She looked around, her eyes on the wallpaper. "Jesus. It smells like Lysol and camp in here." She muttered, her nose crinkling.

"It won't smell like that after it's painted." He replied, not exactly disagreeing with her. He gave the wall a quick look over before looking back at her. She was donned in a baby T showing off her stomach and a pair of short shorts and sneakers, her hair pulled back. "Forget to get dressed this morning?" He teased, smirking.

"They're called 'work clothes'. Not everyone is willing to scrub walls dressed like a professional kitten hugger." She retorted, pulling the front of her shirt down a bit to cover up her stomach. He chuckled, nodding.

"So I was thinking...how about lavender?" He asked, staring at the wall.

"Oh sure, then you'll have plenty of light when you invite your boyfriends over for a tea-party." She retorted, looking at the wall in distaste. His forehead crinkled as he turned his back on the wall, his lips pursed.

"Lavender isn't a gay color."

"It so is." She looked at him incredulously.

"No, it's not." He shook his head, trying to defend it.

"John, lavender screams put your willy in my mouth," she rushed him, a smile stretching across her face.

"No-"

"Let me gobble it up-"

"No-"

"Omnomnomnom!" He stopped, his head tilted away slightly as he tried to hide his laughter behind his hand. She grinned, watching him. Pulling his fingers from his lips he waved his index finger at her, his mouth open as he tried to regain composure.

"No. Lavender is a spring color. It doesn't eat up light and it's calming." He explained.

"Then use cream." Harry insisted, grinning. John put on a mock grimace.

"But cream is such an ugly color." Her jaw dropped, a hint of a smile still in her features. Placing her hands on her hips she playfully glared at him.

"Well then someone needs to head upstairs and start burning half of his ugly jumpers." John rolled his eyes, chuckling before nodding.

"Fine, fine, cream it is." He looked around for a moment, a thud coming from upstairs. Harry jumped before her eyes slid to the ceiling.

"I really wish that cat would land a little softer." She muttered, her hands dropping to her sides. "Did you ever figure out how it keeps getting in up there?" She looked at him, her eyebrows knitted. Everything in her being screamed ghost, but she tried to look at things from a logical perspective. As John had said, ghosts don't exist, and it was already proven that it was the cat that made all of the noise upstairs.

"There's a leaning trellis against the back of the house. I guess she just uses it as a ladder to get up on the balcony." He shrugged, grabbing the bucket full of mop water that he'd used earlier and brought it to the dining room. "What do you think about the rest of the house? What should we paint the other rooms?" He looked around. The wall paper was black all over but it there was no actual damage to the walls that weren't fixed, luckily enough.

"I don't know. Purple?" Harry looked at the kitchen and dining area. He stood up straight, a look of appall on his face.

"For the dining room?" He looked at her his face twisted. "Purple is associated with foods people don't enjoy, like eggplants or purple cabbage. So psychologically it's an appetite suppressant. Warmer colors like yellow or red increase the appetite. Colors like purple should be used for creative areas, like the office or other rooms." He stopped, thinking it over for a second then bit his lip. "Actually, purple is kind of a bad color I guess. Blues are calming so you would put those in a bathroom or bedroom. Gold in an office." He explained. "I think a yellow would be nice." He turned his attention back to the dining room walls, his arm propped up to cradle his chin. Harry stared at him, her arms crossing. After she didn't reply or move he looked up, catching her pensive look. "What?"

"You are so gay." She dropped her arms, making her way for the door. He laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I lived with Mary for 6 years, Harry. You learn things living with a woman. Of course I shouldn't have to tell you." He followed her.

"Of course. In your case you learned how to put high heels on and paint your fingernails." She teased, heading out the door. She made her way down the steps, heading for the garage.

"I told you those were Mary's nieces. It doesn't matter how manly you are, if a little girl tells you to let her paint your nails and have a tea party with her, you do it." He followed her as she made her way for the couch set up off to the side, but unburied so they could grab it.

"What were the high heels for then?" She grabbed one side of the couch, bracing it tight and moving it over so she could get a good grip.

"New Years party, they were arguing about how women complained about trying to impress men and how being a woman isn't that hard. So the women forced us to wear their shoes." He explained, walking around to grab the other end of the couch.

"Be sexist," Harry looked at him. Leaning down she grabbed the couch and lifted. John lifted from his end as well and started walking, making sure to support most of the weight so she wouldn't hurt herself -after all, she was sick.

"I'm not sexist," he grunted, being careful not to run her over as they made their way across the yard. He stopped as they got to the porch. "Step up." he said, tilting his head to the side to peer around the sofa, looking at the steps behind her. He waited as Harry stepped up onto the bottom step of the porch, taking the stairs carefully so as not to knock herself over. "I was one of the only men who knew just how hard women work." He explained, keeping his eyes on the steps. "Ok that was the last one." He winced as she hit the top, his arms starting to hurt.

"Then why did you have to wear the shoes?" Harry questioned, hurrying so that John could climb the stairs and they could get the couch inside.

"All of the men had to," he wheezed a bit, taking the steps, almost tripping on the last one. "Put it down." He leaned down, putting his end down. Harry followed suit, panting a bit. "It was a...collectively suffer for the stupidity of a few type of thing." He huffed, bent over, his hands on his knees.

"Oh yikes." She grimaced. "Well, men deserve it for being sexist bigots." She replied. He stood up, rubbing his arms for a second before pointing at her.

"Now you're the sexist bigot."

"What?" Her forehead crinkled. "No."

"Yes, yes you are." He nodded, pursing his lips.

"How so?" She huffed.

"You said 'men deserve it for being sexist bigots'. You're pinning the blame on all of them. If you would have said 'they deserved it' then you would have been addressing the few idiots who actually were sexist bigots." He smiled. "It's important not to create a double standard. If you expect something from someone, make sure to do it in return." Shaking her head she leaned down and grabbed the couch.

"Damn feminist." Carefully she hoisted it up. Grabbing his end he lifted it up and helped her move it into the house and to the area where the end stands were, sliding it into place between them.

"If you think negatively about feminism then you haven't seen real feminism." He frowned. "Harry, feminism isn't just about equal rights for women, it's stopping people from using the word "girl" or "woman" as an insult. It's about respect for everyone, male, female, transgendered. Because believe it or not men are a victim as well. Being insulted and taunted for being too feminine because they like art by being called a pussy, or expecting women to shave their armpits because they're women and considered eye candy, or so that men aren't beaten up in the streets for being a nurse instead of a doctor." He spoke passionately, looking around the room as he explained. "Of course it's not as bad here as it is in the US, but still. You should be adamant about it."

She looked at him, her jaw taut as he spoke. She crossed her arms, not liking the conversation. "I just don't care about it. It doesn't bother me."

"So it doesn't bother you when a straight male asks you whose the man in your relationship?" He cocked an eyebrow. Her lips puckered, a look of insult in her eye. That's exactly what he was aiming for because he knew she hated that question.

"Come on, let's go grab your paint." She muttered, letting her arms drop again. Turning she made her way back to the door, her hand digging into her pockets to pull out her keys. He forced a smile and grabbed his jacket, following after her. You learn a lot about respect in the military. You're neither a man nor woman. There you're just a soldier, an ally, a friend. When he was deployed he'd learned that women were just as good as men. Running, shooting, giving orders. Women were just as good and it felt nice knowing that if there were no men around to help him, there would always be a strong, selfless woman behind him.

Getting to the car he slipped into the passenger seat and buckled up. He didn't say much as she pulled out, making her way to the nearest store, and it wasn't until they got there that she said something.

"Did you figure out the colors you wanted?" She asked, grabbing a trolley that was left by the entrance and pushed it through the automatic doors.

"Um, I think I have most of them. Yellow for the kitchen, light blue for the bathroom and master bedroom. Lavender for the guest room, a crimson and gold for the study's. Cream for the living room." He stopped as they reached the paint section, the associate refilling the color mixing machine. He approached the color samples and started digging through the color swatches, looking for the right colors.

"What about the halls?" Harry asked, looking through them as well.

"I don't know." He admitted. "Maybe a blue like the master bedroom?" He pulled out a lavender and cream color before searching for a red.

"Like this?" She pulled out a strip with a nice light blue. It was very calming and brought a smile to his face.

"That's a good one." He admitted. "I like that. Maybe I should change the halls to cream color?" He mused.

"Cream and white is nice. You'll have to paint the ceilings white." She said, not looking up from looking through the colors. John nodded.

"I have no problem with that." He admitted then smiled as he pulled out a lighter yellow color. Not super saturated but still colorful enough to make the room bright and happy. Digging through Harry found a nice gold and crimson color for the study and handed them to him.

"These it?" She asked, turning away from the samples, looking at him. Pulling away he took the cards and looked over them. Pulling a pen from his pocket he marked them _blue= master bedroom and bathrooms, gold and red = study's, cream= halls and living room, yellow= dining room and kitchen, lavender= guest bedroom_.

"Yep I believe this is good." He admitted. "I'm debating on putting siding up on the outside of the house as well. Or just painting it." He brought the swatches to the desk and waited as the associate finished what he was doing. "All semi gloss with primer in it please." He requested as he slid the cards forward. The associate nodded and turned, punching in the codes for each of the paints and stuck the buckets of plain white paint into the mixer to be mixed.

"I recommend siding, especially by the water." Harry said, looking through some pamphlets that were located off to the side of the counter for designing your house. "The water might not let it dry. Last thing you want is Nosferatu's play house to have bubbling monster paint growing off the sides."

"I thought so too." He admitted, chuckling. While the associate mixed the plates, John went and looked for some rollers and paint brushes. Grabbing a few of each and a couple paint trays he came back and placed them in the trolley along with some tape and a roll of plastic to place along the edges of the floor to keep from getting paint on them. After an hour the associate labeled all of the paints with a drop of paint on the top of the can, then handed them to John. Thanking him John loaded the cans into the trolley and made his way to the front of the store. He'd worry about looking for siding later.

"Have you been looking for a job?" Harry asked once getting to the check out. Grabbing a scanner John scanned all of the cans, the total coming out to 125.32 pounds.

"Not yet," he admitted, swiping his card.

"Card invalid, please use another method of payment." The machine crooned. John blinked, nodding, trying again.

"I know the card works," he swiped it again.

"Card invalid, please use another method of payment."

"No, it's a perfectly good card." He argued. The machine repeated itself, making him flustered as everyone in the check out around him looked up at him. Biting her tongue Harry stepped forward, grabbing for the card which John tried to pull away from her. Snatching it she pushed him off to the side and covered the card in the bottom of her shirt before pushing it through, then removing it she dragged it through and waited. The machine was silent, then processed, bidding him a nice day.

Pulling away she shoved the card back into his hands and grabbed the trolley, heading for the door. "How did you do that?" John questioned, following her, looking down at the card then back up at her curious.

"Sometimes dust built up makes it hard for the machine to read your magnetic strip." She explained, pushing the trolley through the doors and out to the car. "The tip is to not get mad at it. Because then you make yourself seem insane." Opening the trunk she put the paint in the back and shut the lid before putting the trolley in the corral.

John didn't say anything as he climbed into the passenger seat, wondering how come he'd never thought of that. Pulling out Harry made her way back to John's. No words were exchanged as they drove, John thinking about the task at hand, trying to figure out how much time it would take to finish each room.

When they got back to the house they pulled into the driveway, parked the car and got out. Harry climbed out first and opened the trunk, grabbing a couple of the cans of paint. Getting out John followed her lead and grabbed the last few, following her inside, tucking the painting supplies under his arm.

He opened the can carefully, then covered the borders of the floor with a foot wide strip of plastic so the wouldn't worry about getting it on the floor.

They didn't waste any time, painting the walls white first so the color would be even and vibrant, then carried on to do the same in the dining room as they waited for the living room to dry. Once the walls were painted white in the dining room, kitchen and downstairs bathroom they made their way back to the living room and poured the cream color into a tray and began painting the walls a light cream color. John couldn't help but smile as he painted, the place already looking much better.

Upstairs a loud thudding startled him a bit. Pulling away from the wall he turned and looked at the ceiling -which needed to be painted as well. 'What a noisy cat' he thought to himself, a smile on his face as he shook his head. Turning back around he pulled back startled, a large delicate hand-print pressed in the middle of the paint, just off to the side of his head. He smirked, rolling his eyes. Harry always did like to mess with him.

Grabbing more paint on his roller he painted over it, telling himself he was going to keep his eyes glued so she wouldn't do it again. After finishing the section he was working on he slid down, making his way around the room. A couple more thuds coming from upstairs but he ignored it. Once finished with the living room he rinsed the painting tray with the cream in it and poured in the yellow to start painting the dining room and kitchen -which only took the better half of an hour- then proceeded with the bathroom. Rinsing the tray and filling it up with the color respectively labeled 'Marine blue'. It only took 3 or 4 hours before the downstairs was finished. Once they had finished he stepped back with a smile, being careful not touch his paint covered hands to his face.

"How about we eat dinner on the porch?" He asked, looking back at Harry who had managed to splatter some paint on her leg. He was beginning to feel high from the fumes and he knew that fresh air would be welcomed.

"Sounds good to me." She agreed, putting the brush back in the tray and headed through the dining room to the front door. John followed but stopped off in the kitchen, telling her that there were a couple lawn chairs -from a couple camping trips he'd taken with Mary- in the garage that he could set up on the porch so that they could sit.

He didn't actually have any food yet, but he had bought a couple sandwiches and some crisps for when Harry came over to help -and an extra in case Clara had decided to come. Grabbing the two wrapped sandwiches and a couple small bags of crisps he walked out, being careful not to touch the door too much -which they had painted white.

Looking up he saw Harry making her way from the garage, holding a couple lawn chairs. He smiled and found a good spot to set them where they were overlooking the ocean. Putting the food under one arm he took one of the chairs from her and set it up before taking a seat. He sighed in relief. He had been working for at least 6 or 7 hours and the sun was starting to set, but he didn't mind.

Once Harry had claimed her seat he handed her her food. "Thanks." She smiled before looking at it. "John, did you get this sandwich from the Petrol station?" He started unwrapping his sandwich, looking up for a second then nodded.

"Yes, why?" She looked at him incredulously before shaking her head, unwrapping it from the plastic.

"Nice, first meal you have in your house is a shitty petrol sandwich." She muttered. He stopped staring at her just as he'd stuck a lettuce covered finger in his mouth.

"Well I don't exactly have plates now or a stove do I?" He turned his eyes back to his sandwich and took a bite. "Besides, it was on the way. Since when did you start hating Petrol food?" He snickered, chewing and swallowing.

"I don't, I just thought maybe you would have assembled a little nicer of a meal for the first time in your new house." She said, biting into her sandwich. "Like those cabbage rolls in the fridge." She reached up, covering her mouth as if trying to keep the food from falling out as she talked, the bread muffling her words a bit as she tucked the bite in behind her cheek.

"I guess I could have dirtied up some plates to eat cold cabbage rolls on the porch," he smirked, looking at the ocean. "I just wanted a sandwich." Not much was exchanged after that, both just sitting on the porch, looking at the ocean. John couldn't help but feel guilty and sad as he'd missed his visitation with Mary, but he knew it was a good thing. He needed to start letting go, and for the first time in a while he felt comfortable and content.

They watched as the sun began to set over the water. The blue turning a magnificent shade of purple and pink, but a black rain cloud cast a threatening shadow. In a matter of minutes, rain started to fall. A warm rain, comforting. It hit the water of the bay in ripples, stretching out far before colliding with another and vanishing, only to be replaced by another.

"I should get going." Harry said after a few moments. Pushing herself to her feet she took his garbage and balled it up, stuffing it inside her crisp bag tightly. "The walls should be dry by now. Sleep with a window open and the fumes won't bother you." She smiled, turning to face him. Standing he walked over, hugging her tightly.

"Thanks for helping. It would have taken me all week to get the downstairs finished." She hugged back.

"Oh don't I know it." Pulling away with a smile and patted his arm before turning and making her way to the front of the porch. "Sleep well, I'll be over in the morning to help you move the rest of your stuff in and paint the halls." She covered her head with the garbage, making her way down the steps.

"Do you need an umbrella?" He asked, standing by the railing, looking after her concerned.

"No I'm good!" She called back. Running to her car, she grabbed the door she pulled it open and threw herself in, slamming it behind her. He leaned against the post, then waved as she looked up, the car roaring to life. She waved back before backing up, turning around and driving out of sight. He stared after her for a bit before looking at the garage. With a sigh he stepped off the porch, making his way across the quickly puddling ground. He was soaked before he got to the building. Grabbing the door he pulled it down and locked it. He had too many valuables in there, he didn't want them getting destroyed or stolen.

Turning he made his way back to the house, enjoying the warm rain, but something out of the corner of his eye stopped him. He looked up at the balcony, his eyes squinting as the rain raced down his face. There was a dark figure, like someone leaning against the corner of the house looking at him. His heart jumped as he blinked the water free, but when he opened them it was gone.

He stared up at it, his mouth hanging open. He had no idea what it was, but for some reason it unnerved him. Turning he made his way back to the house and walked in, ignoring the smell of paint, or the fact he was dripping water on his floor -but he did remove his muddy shoes.

Grabbing the door to the office he pushed it open and raced through, running up the stairs taking two steps at a time. Hitting the top of the steps he waited, listening carefully. He made his movements quiet and still. The thing was, with old houses like that it was hard to move silently in, but John knew where to step -courtesy of military stealth lessons.

He carefully crept in through the guest room, barely making any noise at all, keeping his ear open. He would know if the person was moving from the sound of the floorboards.

Getting to the opposite side of the room he grabbed the door to the balcony and opened it, looking out. There was no one. Slipping out onto it he kept his ear open still, but it would be a bit more difficult with the sound of the rain. He moved quickly, looking into each of the study's, the bathroom and master bedroom. When no one was found he straightened up and stared out over the ocean, rain pouring off of his face. He felt stupid.

Sighing he turned and pushed the door open, walking into the bathroom. Grabbing his soaked jumper he began to pull it off as he shut the door with his foot. Dropping the shirt to the floor he started to unbutton the soaked white button up he had on underneath when the sound of the cat meowing reached his ears. He turned, looking out onto the balcony. There, drenched, was the cat. Walking over he pulled door open, letting her in.

"Wet, huh?" He grinned. She rubbed against him, purring, meowing over and over again. "Well don't yell at me for it, you're the one who wanted to be on that side of the door when it started raining." He smiled, shutting the door once again.

Walking over he grabbed a couple of towels he'd brought up and leaned down. He draped one of them over the cat, rubbing it to dry it off. The cat stood still, purring as the towel mussed up her fur. Occasionally she meowed at him, making him laugh. "Oh yeah?" He smiled. Once the cat was thoroughly dried he stood and went back to unbuttoning his shirt. "My turn."

The cat meowed at him before turning, walking in circles. John stared at her as she ran in circles as if at someone's feet. She stared at the ceiling, meowing over and over again. "You're a mental one." He grimaced before the shirt plopped to the floor. Turning he turned the shower on, pulling the curtain closed. He stood there as the hot water began steaming, the steam filling the bathroom. He grabbed his belt and pulled at it, pulling it free from his belt loops. Folding it he put it on the counter.

John stared at the fogging mirror, his eyes tracing over his pale body but as always, stopped on the scar on his shoulder. He was discharged as an army Doctor after he'd been shot, and that scar brought so many memories back to him. He lifted a hand, a finger tracing it, then suddenly something caught his eye. He quickly looked down. There in dried cream paint was a big hand print. He sighed and grabbed his pants, pulling them off, boxers and all.

"Son of a bitch." He muttered, holding them up to get a better glimpse when an image of a man standing behind him in the mirror caught the corner of his eye. Gasping he dropped the pants and whirled around, looking all over the bathroom, but there was nothing there. John stared, swallowing hard as a cool breeze dragged itself across the front of his body. A draft. Possibly from the door. It made his already cold skin prickle as his heart raced.

Leaning against the counter he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was being ridiculous. He was tired and he was seeing things. It was Harry's fault for telling him it was haunted when he knew it wasn't, but he never fully dismissed the idea that it could be, so it was haunting him now. He shifted a bit, feeling a strange sense of excitement at the prospect that he could have actually bought a haunted house.

Another breeze rolled across his body, causing his goosebumps to get bigger, but that wasn't all. Looking down, he noticed that somewhere in either the fear or excitement he'd gotten half of an erection. He sighed, shaking his head, then with a stern look he glanced at it. "Shut up." Off across the bathroom the cat looked up from her nose buried in his wet jumper, kneading it and screamed at him. "Not you." He looked at her before turning to the shower.

Grabbing the curtain he pulled it open and stepped inside. The warm water felt like fire against his cold skin but he welcomed it. He closed his eyes, letting the water rush over him. He didn't have any of his toiletries with him, so he would have to do without for now. Carefully he ran his hands over his body, scrubbing at certain places, then grabbing the drain stopper he placed it in, turning the heat up.

Bending down he grabbed the sides of the tub and lowered himself so he was sitting. He let the water rain down on him as his eyes closed. He'd always wanted a tub like this. Something relaxing, something big...

His mind started to wander, wondering what it would have been like if Mary and him had moved in here. She would have loved the view of the ocean from the balcony. The wrap around porch.

Soon his mind drifted to the tub. He imagined both of them sitting side by side, the hot water pouring onto them. The drops of liquid running down her shoulders and chest from the strands of hair she got wet. The slight pool that would collect as she held her legs together, her knees drawn. He closed his eyes imaging her hand running down his chest, cold, not yet warmed by the hot water. The curtain opened a bit but he ignored it. It was probably the cat.

He went on day dreaming, imagining her lips at his neck, her body shifting to wrap around his. He took a deep breath, his eyes opening as he looked down at his lap. His half mast stiff was standing at full attention now. The slight breeze that came in through the opening in the curtain was welcome as he tilted his head back, spreading his legs. His eyes closed as he grabbed himself, rubbing his thumb up and down the shaft, his mind replacing it with his wife's hand. He moaned, feeling a bit of shame course through him which he justified it with the thought "she's my wife, I can wank it to her all I want!"

He closed his eyes again, his hand sliding up and down his shaft, tugging a bit. God it had been a long time since he'd gotten laid. A two months before Mary died was the last time he's seen any action. He moaned, picking up the pace, his minds eye running down the beautiful frame of his beloved, dearly departed wife. A passionate fire ignited in his loins, his legs quivering as he squeezed, pulling. The hot water from the shower mirroring the very warm and inviting cavern of the woman he missed dearly. In his mind, he heard her moans, her breathy sighs with each pump of his fist. A cold hand traveling down his chest to his hips. His breathing came, short and shallow, his hips rolling as water splashed up the sides of the tub, rushing over his stomach. With a deep satisfied groan, the fire traveled from his loins, through his shaft. His breath hitched, his groan turning to a whimper as his pleasure splashed up his stomach in the form of a thick blanket of white that washed away with the pounding water.

He stared down at his member, his hand shaking. A tear hit his cheek. Reaching up, he wiped at his eyes, not bothering to hold back the tears. He missed his wife. He missed her more than anything in the world. He covered his face, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he sobbed openly. "I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything."

Reaching forward he pulled the drain plug from the drain and shut the water off cutting his relaxing shower short. All he wanted to do now was sleep. Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself, ignoring the howling cat that followed close behind.

Getting to the master bedroom he flopped down on the bed. He ignored the folded blankets at the bottom. He laid there, his wet hair drenching his pillow beneath his head. He ignored the canvas feeling of the mattress below his shoulders.

Suddenly there was a thud. He groaned, wondering what the hell the cat was jumping off of to make such a loud noise, when footsteps followed. His eyes snapped open, his heart stopping dead in its tracks. They were light footsteps, but they didn't belong to a woman.

He sat there, his fingers twitching a bit as the footsteps came to a stop just outside the door. The cat meowed. But it was what followed it that frightened John. A soft whispy, other worldly voice. Deep and rich hushed from the hall. "Ssh."

He stared, his heart leaping into his throat. "Nope." John got up and grabbed the first thing he could, slipping into them. His sadness he had been feeling a moment ago, brought on by his quick pleasure session completely gone. "Nope, nope." He made for the door, shaking his head. Pushing it open he rushed down the hall and for the stairs. The cat howled, following after him. Reaching the bottom of the stairs John whirled around and screamed. "Stop following me!" The cat stopped, staring at him confused. The house was silent for a moment when footsteps started up again. John laughed, feeling as if he were losing his mind and screamed. "Nope! Nope nope nope!" He turned and ran for the door, grabbing his car keys on the way through. He didn't even bother shutting the door as he jumped the steps and raced for his car.

He ripped the door open and threw himself in, slamming the key in the ignition. Turning it on he slammed it in reverse, the headlight illuminating a figure in the window which hovered there, staring out at him. Then in a minute, it just vanished, disappearing completely. John stared at it in petrified awe before slamming on the gas, the car jerking backwards. He spun the wheel, the car spinning in the mud. Stopping he slammed it in drive and slammed on the gas, racing down the drive to the main road. Speeding along the road until he could no longer speed, heading for his sisters house.

Harry and Clara were just about to get ready for bed when the sound of a car door slamming shut stopped them, followed by a frantic knock at the door. Sharing a concerned look with each other they raced downstairs. Harry pulled the door open, shocked to see John standing at the door, drenched, pale as a ghost. He stared at her, his eyes slightly bloodshot as he panted. "My bloody house is fucking haunted!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Haunted! I can't believe my house is haunted!" John shouted, sitting at the kitchen table. Clara came around the table, handing him a bit cup of coffee.

"Ssh, ssh John it's alright."

"No it is _not_ alright!" He screamed. "I'm living in a house with a bloody ghost! I was wrong, ghosts exist!"

"Did you get a good look at it?" Harry questioned, sitting at the table with him, her eyebrows knitted. She sipped at her own coffee, making sure her dressing robes were fastened tight around her.

"I saw him, I saw...the ghost but...not well enough to point out features." He explained, his face resting in his palms. He wanted to die. He wanted to curl up and die of fright right then and there.

"You saw him." She looked at him. "Well enough to know it was a him." John looked at her, his mouth hanging open then hissed.

"No Harry, no I'm assuming it's a him based on the pure fact it had a male voice, was six foot three and had hands the size of a frying pan!" He shouted. "Oh but only through the fact that he was a shadowy ominous figure who enjoyed peering at me from around the corner of my house or hiding in my bathroom while I'm bathing!"

"A shadowy figure?" She looked at him then grimaced. "Good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?" John couldn't help but stare at her for a long moment, his hands spread as if he couldn't believe she was making him choose which one.

"Does it look like I care?" He growled.

"Ok ok, good news, it's not a ghost." She said finally. He stared at her, his eyebrows knitting in the middle, confused.

"What's the bad news?" He asked, his stomach churning a bit.

"It's not a ghost." She repeated herself, resting her elbows on the table. He rolled his eyes, his face twisting.

"What the bloody hell does that even mean? Your good news can't be your-" He stopped then looked at her, his eyes widening. "There's someone in my house?" He stood up.

"John!" Harry stood up, rushing over. She grabbed him, pulling him back to the table as he made for the door. "John just...sit." She pushed him back in his chair.

"You said that there's no ghost in my house, that means that there's a person in my house terrorizing me." He said, tapping his fingertip against the table as if pointing.

"I only said it's not a ghost because ghosts aren't dark shadowy figures. What I was talking about was there might be some other supernatural thing in your house." She explained. He stopped, staring at her. Both John and Clara couldn't help but gawk. "What?" Harry looked at them confused.

"So you're saying that someone summoned Satan in the house I bought from a 40 year old feline-phobic?" He rubbed his forehead.

"Or a demon."

"That's not any better!"

"John are you seriously listening to yourself?" Clara crossed her arms, giving both Harry and John a look of disappointment. "Harry just said there's a demon in your house. A demon, and you're believing her." He looked up at her, feeling a bit ridiculous now that she put it that way, but he knew that there was definitely something in that house.

"Well what is it then?" John asked, looking at her. "My house is a 3 hour walk away from civilization, somehow they were able to get into my house with me being around and hide on me."

"Yeah, and I was with John all day, we would have heard someone walking around." Harry agreed, looking at Clara. Clara sighed, shaking her head, her eyes closing. Her eyebrows raised.

"I don't know, but it's not a demon." She looked at John. "And to prove it's not a ghost, we'll get a hold of a medium or something." She grabbed her coffee, drinking it as she stood.

"A...medium." John's nose crinkled.

"Someone who can communicate with the dea-"

"I know what a medium is, Harry." He sighed, cupping his face once more. He couldn't believe that they were stooping so low as to hire a hokey fortune teller to go to his house, whip out some hoodoo he didn't even like _thinking_ about messing with, and messing with it. Whether it was real or not he didn't want to screw with it and he didn't want someone else screwing with it in his house. Last thing he wanted was to wake up with a thousand damned souls burning in his closet. "So where do you even hire a medium?" He asked, resting his elbows on the table.

"Well, there's one here in Bristol, we can have her run out tomorrow and check?" Clara opted. He really didn't want to, but at the same time, he wanted to make sure that it was a ghost -only because it would mean it couldn't steal anything from him or stab him in the shower unlike a trespasser.

"I think we might just have to do that." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. Both of them looked at him sympathetically for a few moments before Clara turned her back on them to pour out the last little bit of her coffee she wasn't going to drink.

"You're welcome to stay here for tonight, I know you were so excited to stay at your place." Harry stood up, wincing as the back of her legs stuck to the wooden chair. He didn't say anything, he just gave a single nod, drumming his knuckles on the table. "Get some sleep, John." She walked over, kissing his head.

"I'll try." He forced a smile. Turning, the girls gave him one last glance as their cups were stashed in the sink, then they went off to bed. John stayed up for a while, thinking back on everything that had happened. Sighing he dragged his hands down across his face, wondering if it had been in fact a ghost, or his imagination playing tricks on him. Although at that point he didn't know what he would have been happier with, being wrong about the ghost or being right about it.

If he was wrong about the ghost existing, that would mean that he spent money on hiring a medium to check out his house that was plagued by his tired mind and paranoia. If he had been right about the ghost...well...he had to deal with a ghost.

He pushed himself to his feet, unable to take thinking about it anymore. He had the money, he would hire the medium for an hour or two just long enough to do a...seance or whatever the hell she was going to do then get her out. He would rather have wasted some money to find out he was delusional over ignoring it and having this pissed off spirit stomping up and down his halls all night.

Slipping his shoes off he put them by the front door and made his way up the stairs to the bedroom that once was his. Clara and Harry seemed to have already gone to bed -or they were doing something else, which he was awkward for him to consider. He crept by their room as quietly as he could so at not to disturb them -in either activity they were currently engaged in. Opening the door he slipped into his room and shut it once more.

He hesitated before stripping down, hanging his wet clothes up on the back of the chair at the desk. He crawled into bed and focused on keeping his mind blank. He wanted sleep, not to think about that...thing that was happening 37 minutes away from that bedroom.

Pulling the covers over himself he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to catch up to him. A flash back to the bathroom, the reflection of the man in the mirror, but instead of the quick glimpse, more was seen. Pale skin, dark curly hair. Tall. His eyes misty but blue. John shook his head, forcing the thought out of his mind. Rolling over he buried his face under the pillow. The faster he went to sleep, the faster this would be all over with and hopefully he could get back to his normal life in his house.

John woke up early, sliding his clothes on. They were stiff from drying oddly all night but he ignored it. Heading downstairs he saw that Clara and Harry were talking to a woman. He was a bit taken aback at first, then he noticed the jewelry and clothes she wore.

"Oh John, this is Miss Alienia." Clara stood, coming over to him. He looked at the woman, taking in her features. She was pale with gray hair piled into a messy nest on her head, decorated with little beads. She wore possibly 30 necklaces and at least two rings on each finger. She had a shawl wrapped around her arms that looked very much like something from Africa and a strapless maxi dress that had the same loudness as the shawl. He smiled and walked over, holding his hand out.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." He greeted. She smiled, taking his hand, shaking it firmly.

"It's been a rough night, hasn't it?" She questioned, her eyes kind and understanding. "Sometimes spirits feel the need to bother the living right after they've experienced some emotional distress." He stared at her, his smile fading. "He was probably concerned about you dear." Standing she gathered her dress, pulling it into her arms so she could walk. "Come, you'll take me to this boy and we'll see if has anything to say."

She made her way for the door, her posture straight. She tread carefully but confidently as she slipped out the front door. John looked back at Harry and Clara, concerned but in awe at the same time.

"Where did you find this woman?" he questioned, walking towards the door, making sure to keep his voice down.

"Clara went to her a few times when we first got together. I personally know nothing about her." Harry whispered back. John carefully slipped his shoes on -even though they were still damp from the night before and made his way out the front door. The woman stood by John's car, a smile on her face.

"Are we taking your vehicle dear?"

"You don't have a car?" He asked, his forehead crinkled. She shook her head, an warm chuckle escaping her lips.

"No. I am mostly blind, the spirits guide me." She admitted. "And the last time I had drove I smashed into a telephone pole. So it's best I stay grounded." She joked. John couldn't help but chuckle a bit, nodding as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, no I...completely understand." He made his way down the steps to his car, Clara and Harry following behind. Harry and Clara chose the back seat, letting the older woman sit in the front. John of course drove. Climbing in he waited for everyone to get buckled up and settled in before turning the car on. He pulled out of the drive and made his way down the street, reluctantly heading back for his home. "So uh...how did you know about..."

"I could sense it." She smiled at him, her eyes a milky color, faded brown. He nodded, wondering just how legitimate she was. "Spirits make themselves known at the most trying of times. That's when you're the most vulnerable and accepting. You'll believe anything after you've had a good cry." She nudged him, her voice warm and calming. He laughed, nodding.

"Yeah, don't I know that." After driving for a while he pulled off of the main road and made his way up the dirt path toward the house. Pulling into the driveway he parked the car, but didn't get out right away. He stared at the house, looking in the window he saw the figure in the night before. There was nothing. He inhaled deeply before turning the car off.

"Come come, he's waiting for us." She cooed, unbuckling herself. Grabbing the door she pushed it open and climbed out, making sure her dress didn't touch the slick mud. He hesitated for a moment before climbing out and running around the front of the car to guide her towards the porch, leaving Harry and Clara to catch up.

John stopped after helping her up the steps and looked at the door confused. He had left the door wide open when he left in a hurry the night before, but now it was closed. Not fully, just...hovering open a crack, as if to keep people out, but still open in case John decided to come back. He didn't dwell on it too much. Grabbing the door he pulled it open and lead her into the living room.

"Which room should we do this?" He asked, rubbing his hands together. His skin was crawling, feeling as if someone were staring at him.

"What is the room you first noticed something was odd?" She looked at him. A loud thud came from upstairs, making him jump. She looked up at the ceiling. "I take it you hear that most often?" He sighed, rubbing his forehead in agreement.

"That cat...I don't even know if it is the cat that makes that noise or not, but that cat..."

"She's always walking around something." Harry spoke up, walking in the house with Clara.

"Is she?" Alienia smiled. "Animals have the ability to see spirits, to...become emotionally attached to a being of another realm." She explained, her hands cupped out in front of her as she spoke. "Children also do. They are more...adept." Turning she looked around. "Do you know where the owner died?"

"Uh, yeah." John nodded, taking her arm. He lead her in through the office. "Apparently he was burned alive, my sister said that he was tied to his bed and burned to death, but I'm not quite sure how factual that is." he looked back at Harry. She shrugged.

"Then that is where we'll try." She grabbed her skirt, hiking it up as she tackled the stairs slowly. The cat stared at her, meowing over and over again. Alienia smiled, petting it carefully, her eyes peering around the hallway as she straightened up. "Oh yes, it is rather cold up here, isn't it?" She turned, walking slowly as she dragged her hand across the railing. John walked slowly with her, leading her to the bedroom. Carefully he pushed the door open, half expecting something to jump out at him and sighing in relief when nothing did.

"So how are we going to do this?" He questioned, looking at her curiously. Smiling she walked over and lifted one of the many layers of her flowing, thick gown, revealing a messenger bag like fanny pack. He stared at her shocked, having no idea that that was even there. Like a laptop bag strapped to her hip hidden by 80 pounds of fabric. He really didn't see that coming.

Carefully she unhooked it from around her waist and placed it on the floor. She didn't waste any time, crawling down onto her knees. Opening the case she pulled out a Ouija board and a couple thin candles.

"Shouldn't we wait until night?" Harry questioned, looking at her confused.

"No," Alienia smiled. "Just cover the window's, make it as dark as you can and it'll be fine." She grabbed a lighter from her bag, working to light the candles. John thought it over for a moment, wondering how he could darken the room then he remembered.

"Ah, Harry, down in the garage there are three sets of black out curtains, can you go grab them?" He questioned, looking at her. She looked at him blankly at first but didn't argue. Turning she made her way back out into the hall and down the stairs, going as fast as she could. John watched the woman work, his fingers pressed to his lips as she struggled to light the candles.

Finally, after a few minutes the lighter stayed lit. Smiling she lit two of the candles, but as she turned to light the others on the other side of the board they went out. "Oh, I see." She smiled. She put the lighter down, an understanding smile on her face.

"What?" John questioned, not quite moving his fingers from his lips, his arms crossed. "What happened?"

"He's blowing out my candles." She giggled before crossing her legs. "No matter. Candles aren't necessary for this." The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs caught their attention as Harry came back. She handed John the curtains.

"Did I miss anything?" She questioned, panting a bit.

"No, besides our ghost blowing out candles." John muttered, not pleased with it at all. Turning he began to fasten the curtains up, covering up most of the glass. Once they were up he came back and looked at the elder woman. "What do we do?" She smiled up at him and signaled him to sit before taking the lighter.

"I promise we won't catch the place on fire." She said simply, turning to light the candles again. This time, they stayed lit. "Thank you." Placing the lighter back on the ground she placed the planchette on the board. "Now, before I get into it," She looked at Harry and Clara. "Once I begin, it's important that you not leave. If my concentration is broken or I mess up, there is a good chance that whatever malevolent spirit is harbored here will be allowed to roam free within these halls." She explained.

"What are the chances of those spirits hurting and or killing us?" John asked, resting his palms on his knees. The older woman looked up at him, her face stern, eyes serious.

"Very good." Her eyes rolled back, looking at the girls. "If you wish to leave, do so now. Leave the house and wait in the car. We will come out for you when we are done." Harry and Clara exchanged a quick look as if debating on whether or not it would be in everyone's best interest if they left, then linking fingers they left, heading out and down the stairs to wait in the car. "Looks like it's just you and I and our spirit." She smiled, looking at John. John stared at the board, his lips pursed, as if he was trying to ignore an insult.

"Alright, let's do this." He lifted his hands up waiting for further instruction. Chuckling she reached forward, resting her fingers on the planchette and motioned him to do the same. John didn't hesitate, resting his fingertips on the piece of wood very lightly.

"Dear spirit of the dearly departed, are you with us?" She questioned, her eyes focused on the ceiling. John began to feel foolish as the pointer just sat there. Suddenly his fingers felt cold, the planchette moving, dragging up towards the 'Yes'. "Why have you chosen to manifest here?" John waited, his heart starting to race. Suddenly the pointer started to move.

"This...is...my...house." She stopped, looking at John.

"Do you want to ask a question?" John sighed, trying to think of a good question, then looked at the board.

"What's your name?" The pointer hesitated before moving, spelling out the sentence.

"Did...you...not...read...the...books?" He stopped.

"Did I not read the books, what books?"

"The...encyclopedia's."

"The encyclopedias?" He cocked an eyebrow. He waited as the board began to reply once more, seeming more urgent. This time, he could feel the sarcasm in the reply.

"Oh...my...god...kill...me...now." John glared. His mouth opened to pass an insult off but was interrupted as the pointer moved once more. "Think." Sighing John thought back to the encyclopedias. It only took a moment before it clicked.

"I am Sherlock." He mused. "You're name is Sherlock?" The pointer slid up to 'Yes'. "So you're...a man?" There was a long pause before the planchette slid off of the yes then back to it. "Did...you watch me bathe?"

"Let's ask questions that are important." The woman butt in. "Dear spirit, can you show yourself to us?" The pointer didn't move right away, then sliding down it spelled out a different answer.

"John...asked...a...question...first." She stopped and stared at the board then frowned.

"Ignore that question. Can you show yourself to us?" She asked again. The pointer didn't hesitate sliding to 'No'. "Why?" She questioned.

"I...don't...want...to."

"Show yourself, I demand it." She said, starting to get forceful. John stared at her shocked, his mouth agape a bit.

"I...said...no." She clicked her teeth. She opened her mouth to say something when the pointer moved again. "This...is...my...house. Don't...like...it...get...out. In...fact...get...out...anyway." She stopped, seeming shocked.

"That's...not good." John muttered.

"He won't do anything. He's not malevolent, I can tell." She replied. The pointer started moving again, spelling _get out._ John pulled his fingers off the piece, holding his hands up.

"No he really wants you out." John chuckled nervously.

"I won't leave, he's just being spoiled." She replied haughtily. Suddenly a mirror fixed to the wall shattered. John screamed, covering his head.

"Jesus! I thought you said he couldn't do anything!" He hollered. Her own hands moved up to cover her face as well, the pointer moving alone.

"She...lied." John stared down, horrified.

"Ok, get out, get out!" He blew the candles out before jumping to his feet to tear down the curtains. Alienia made a scramble to pack her stuff up. A vase exploded on the dresser, ushering her to move faster, earning a scream from John and the woman again. Gathering her stuff, she clutched the bag to her chest and made a dash out of the room. She headed down the stairs, doors slamming shut behind her. John's heart raced as the doors around him slammed shut as well. He whirled around, his eyes wide in fear. This was it. He was going to be murdered by a bloody ghost! He knew he shouldn't have hired a blasted medium! He just knew-

"I thought she would never leave." A deep, baritone voice sounded behind him. John whirled around, his eyes falling on a tall, pale boy. His eyes a crystal blue, his lips full with cheekbones that could cut glass and a messy head of black curls. He wore a suit, blazer and slacks with a vest. There were puffy sleeves and a cravat. John was speechless. "What's the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost." He smiled, teasingly.

John opened his mouth to reply, his blood running cold, but his cellphone ringing stopped him. Grabbing his phone he looked down, Harry calling. When he looked up the man was gone. He froze, his throat swelling up. After the fifth ring he swallowed his fear and frantically answered the call.

"What?"

"John what the hell are you doing in there! Alienia is terrified, she said the ghost is going crazy-"

"No, no Harry I'm fine." He tried to calm her down. "She was trying to force him to show himself and insulted him. He got sick of her and told her to get out but she ignored him. Take her home and pay her a tip, come back later with my car though, ok?" He spoke quietly into the phone, his eyes skimming the room for any trace of the ghost.

"Ok, just...be careful." She sounded worried, then hung up. Ending the call he tucked the phone back into his pocket and waited, listening for the sound of the car to start and leave. As the engine started he held his hands up and spoke.

"It's just me, you can come out." He spoke carefully.

"Would you stop that?" John jumped, whirling around, the ghost sitting on his bed. "I swear, you people never change." His nose crinkled. "You people and you're 'Oh it's just little innocent me, no need to be afraid of the little fleshy sack walking around. Come talk to me Mr. Spooky, please!'" He mocked, his hands pulled up, waving his fingers dramatically. John stared at him curiously. There was a longer tuft of hair, hiding half of his forehead, the tendrils looking wet.

"Your name is...Sherlock, right?" The ghost looked at him, his blue eyes curious, questioning. There was something about them that made his stomach twist.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes." He forced a smile, his head tilting to the side, his hands dropping back to his lap. That was when John noticed it. His forehead hidden behind his hair was stained red. John gawked a bit, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock looked at him, his forehead crinkling as he turned his head away slightly. John snapped out of it.

"Ah, sorry. John...Watson." He held his hand out. Sherlock looked at it but refused to touch him. John looked at his hand then retracted, looking at the spirit apologetically. "If you don't mind me asking...how?" He trailed off. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his head tilting to the side in a curious manner, then a lovely smile stretched across his face.

"How did I die." He took a deep breath, not that he needed it, and reflected back. "I was a detective, working with Scotland Yard. Consulting detective, one and only. I was on a case, one of the biggest. A man was the center of a crime ring. Someone let my name slip and where I lived and needless to say I was murdered." He stared down at the floor.

"Yes, but..._how_." John nodded, for some reason wanting the details. Sherlock looked at him shocked, but snickered.

"I woke up in the middle of the night, the balcony door open. I tried for a weapon but a weapon found me. He and I were locked in a grapple, he had a fireplace poker for the fireplace in here. I managed to get us both to the floor. He took a marble urn and clubbed me with it, attempting to stun me so I would let to of the poker. It didn't work. So he struck me again, and again and again," John winced, licking his lips as the ghost explained it, his voice soft as if he were narrating an erotica novel. "I fell still," he continued. "So he hauled me up and tied me to the bed nude. He wrapped my night robes around my face to act as a mask. He then set the room on fire. I hemorrhaged, my brain slowly dying from the trauma, but it didn't matter. The flames melted my flesh away, the cloth keeping it so that I wouldn't die from the smoke." He forced a smile. "Or breathe in the heat. He wanted me to die slow, and when the cloth caught..." He trailed off for a moment before chuckling. "Well, nothing quiet beats the feeling of your face being charred right on your skull."

"Jesus," John looked down, the image of the guy in front of him on fire making his stomach churn. "So," he swallowed hard, dropping his hand from his face. "You're...an actual ghost?" Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking at him incredulously.

"No, John. I am a hallucination. You are currently in the Asylum awaiting your lobotomy to cure you of your demons." He replied sarcastically.

"Which would be good if lobotomies actually cured people." John nodded. "And weren't illegal."

"They are illegal?" Sherlock looked at him confused, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh yeah," He snickered. "They're considered inhumane."

"Since when did humans care about inhumane?" The ghost muttered.

"Since we realized it was permanently damaging people." John replied, leaning against the dresser. His mind was still a bit blown that there he was, speaking to a deceased person as if they'd known each other for years.

"No," the spirit shook his head. "That made no difference. Medical persons who performed the lobotomies knew that it changed a person. In fact that was one reason they continued it. It's impossible to dig into someone's skull and not feel as if you're doing something wrong." He explained. "Of course you're doing something wrong, you're cutting someone's head open and removing tiny bits of their brain, the organ that makes them them. You're playing God and changing thoughts and how memory is stored. Everyone knew that, and no one gave a damn. Why?" He looked at John, waiting. He wanted to see what the man would answer.

"Uh," John licked his lips nervously, not quite sure what he should say. He didn't want to anger the spirit, not like Alienia did -and he was sure he wouldn't, but this was a spirit. This was a ghost bound to the Earth because of unfinished business or some other reason he couldn't detach himself. "Because...it made them feel powerful?"

The spirit looked at him, a smile stretching across his face. His eyes sparkled in the light bouncing off of the ocean. John felt his heart flutter, wondering if he had guessed right.

"Very good, John." The ghost praised. "Had I asked the same question while in life someone would have said money." He stood, his hair fluttering a bit as if the wind were blowing through it. He came around the end of the bed. John instinctively took a step back, making the ghost stop. "But you said something different. Why?" He looked at him, noticing the hesitation to get too close.

John hesitated, looking at the way the ghost moved. Fluid, delicate. The way his eyes stared intently at him, rarely closing. "I've done surgeries before. I know what it feels like. Being that string that ties people to life." Sherlock's eyes glistened, a pleased grin coming to his face.

"I see we have a doctor in the house." He turned a bit, his movements mirroring that of a model on the runway, showing off the back side of his outfit. "Severe the string and your patient shall fall. Wonderful."

"Not really." John looked away, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"What is not wonderful about it? The power, the pride when the job is accomplished. Certainly you must feel joy at the end of the day."

"I was an army doctor," John shot, looking at him stern. "I hate the fact the patients were hurt in the first place." The ghost closed his mouth, his expression unreadable as John kept himself from seething, his knuckles clenched by his sides.

"Military doctor," he mused, taking another step towards him. John took one step back. "Tethered to a bloody battlefield. When someone dies under your care, it's not just a patient, it's a friend. An ally." He mused, looking at John meaningfully.

"Have you been in the military?" John questioned, wondering if the man was speaking from experience or not.

"At one point in my life," he walked over to the dresser, John moving away, keeping the space between them. Sherlock stared at the dresser, dragging his fingers across the carved designs that decorated it. "You don't trust me." He stopped, his eyes shooting up to the wall, avoiding the doctor's eye contact.

"You're a phantom. I can't even trust my own mind to decipher whether I'm awake or asleep." He said, hoping not to seem too offensive.

"Of course. You live your life ignorant of the after world when it doesn't involve Heaven or Hell. The chains that bind one to the Earth become nothing but a myth and the souls that remain bound become nothing more than a joke. A hilarious idle for children to dress up as." He muttered.

"Or for big theaters to make corny scary movies of." John agreed. The ghost pulled his head back, his forehead crinkling. His lips parted in a confused manner as he turned looking at John.

"What?"

"Yeah, scary movies. Like 13 Ghosts, or Ghost Ship." Sherlock didn't reply. He just stood there confused, stupefied. "Paranormal Activity?" John tried one that everyone had heard of. When the ghost didn't show any sign of understanding it any better John's eyes slid closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. That was right. Sherlock had died in the early 1900's. Television didn't even become available until the late 1920's. "What year did you die?" He questioned, not looking up.

"What year," Sherlock mused, relieved that the topic had changed, even a little bit. "I really...don't remember." He dropped his hand from the dresser, leaning against the wall beside it. "19...38? No..." He took it back, his forehead wrinkled as he thought back. John couldn't help but feel a bit of pity. For someone who have died so long ago in such a gruesome way and not be able to remember it. "I was in the military in World War I," He rubbed his forehead, groaning a bit. "Bugger".

Outside the sound of a car door slamming shut made John's head snap up, his heart jumping in his chest. He sighed, his hand going to his heart as he chuckled at himself for being so ridiculous.

"Hold that thou-" John stopped but the ghost was gone, completely vanished into thin air. The smile faded from his face as he stared at where the tall man had once stood.

"John?" Harry's voice carried up the stairs, the sound of footsteps as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. "John are you alright?" Her voice quivered.

"I'm fine, Harry." He called back, his eyes remaining on the spot by the dresser. It felt strangely empty in the room now that the pale, dark haired spirit was gone, and John couldn't help but feel a bit concerned for his sudden vanishing act.

"I brought your car back." She said, her voice giving it away that she quickly wanted to go home. He didn't say anything as he looked around the room. Sighing he turned and made his way out into the hall, leaving the door open in case Sherlock had come back.

Turning the railing at the top of the stairs he made his way down the flight to meet up with his sister, wondering what it was the ghost had been trying to say. Whatever it was...he was just going to have to wait until he got back. For now, he had to get his sister home and attempt to talk those two out of believing anything that had happened. The less people he had barging over to poke at his housemate, the better. After all, even if it was in John's name now, the house always was, and always will belong to Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note: I'm really sorry for these chapters suddenly becoming crap. I've been typing through them with migraines -I usually lose about 50% of my vision when I have migraines- so they've been coming out like crap. Also I type all of these out on my iPod. So sorry for that as well.**

**P.S**

**Thank you all so much for the reviews so far! I really really _really_ appreciate you taking the time to read this even though I feel horrible because it's turning into crap xD I promise I'll try to up the quality a bit!**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"Clara, we're home!" Harry called, walking into the house. Clara pushed herself out of the kitchen chair and made her way to the door, grabbing John.

"You're ok?" She cupped his face, kissing his cheeks, obviously terrified. "Oh God! Thank God you're ok."

John rested his hands on her shoulders, holding her for a moment if only to calm her down. "Clara, Clara I'm fine," he carefully pushed her away, smiling.

"Fine? John, Miss Alienia came running out of that house terrified!" She cried, her hands still clasped to his face.

"Yes, well sadly she is a good actress." John replied, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her upper arms. The two looked at him vacantly before sharing a glance with each other.

"What do you mean?" Clara questioned, her forehead crinkling. She had gone to the medium quite a few times in the past and she seemed like she was the real deal. And that whole thing...it just seemed genuine.

"She did the whole spiel and well...the board said some pretty scary stuff but that was about it." He lied, itching the back of his head. "I thought it was legitimate until I took my hands off of the pointer and it moved around on it's own with just her hands on it." He shook his head. "I think as far as simple guess and palm reading stuff goes she's fine, but there are no ghosts in my house."

"But what about that thing you saw last night?" Harry grabbed his arm, making him face her.

"I was tired Harry. I spent 6 or 7 hours working on fixing up that house," he carefully pulled his arm away from her hand. "I'm still feeling angry about losing my house and there's a lot of anxiety from losing Mary. Of course I'm going to see things." He licked his lips. Half of that was true, but only the parts of him being tired and having a lot of anxiety from moving. Oh, and losing his house, he was still pissed about that too.

"So there's no ghost?" She questioned, looking at him slightly upset. "What was that shattering we heard before Alienia ran out?" He looked at her, his jaw a bit tense. He had no idea that they'd heard that.

"The cat got up on the dresser and knocked a vase off." He quickly improvised, hating having to lie to his own sister but knowing that if he didn't tell people that he was just crazy then everyone would want to go and poke the ghost. And dead or not, John didn't want that to happen. One, he wasn't sure if Sherlock could actually hurt people or not and two, that would be just plain rude. "Alienia didn't see it. She was too busy focusing on the board." He added before adjusting his jumper. "I should actually get home. Pick that glass up before that stupid cat hurts herself." He turned, quickly making his way for the door.

"John," He stopped and turned around, looking back at his sister. He noted the look of worry on her face when his eye caught hers, bringing a concerned frown to his own face. "You're sure everything's ok?"

He didn't answer right away. To be truthful, he didn't even know himself. He was knowingly going back to the ectoplasmic representation of a man who was murdered in the early 1900's and _lying_ about his existence to his sister to avoid his home turning into a pit stop on a haunted house tour. He wanted his privacy, but at the same time he didn't want Harry and Clara to never visit again.

After a minute of thinking he came to the conclusion that it would be best to remain quiet and enforce Sherlock's nonexistence like he had started. "Yeah, everything's fine." He forced a smile, nodding. "I'll call you when I need help moving the rest of my stuff in." He tucked his hands in his pockets, rotating his upper body a bit.

"Alright. And...sorry." Her hand went out, grabbing Clara's as if searching for comfort. He looked at her confused, not really sure what she could be apologizing about now.

"For...what?" His head tilted to the side, his eyebrows furrowing.

"For you having to spend that money just to find out your house isn't haunted." She replied, a sympathetic expression on her face that brought a light chuckle to his throat.

"It's fine. See you two soon." And with that he turned, making his way out the front door and down the walkway to his car. He turned to wave back to his sisters -Clara being his sister in-law and all- as they bid him farewell from the doorway then slipped in behind the wheel. Starting the car he made his way for home.

Pulling in the driveway he paused in the car and stared at the house. His concern for the spirit that had randomly vanished earlier kicking back in. Pulling the key from the ignition he climbed out and shut the door before making his way across the yard. Climbing the few steps onto the porch he stopped, spotting that the door had been left open just a crack.

He looked at it curiously before a smile came to his face. Grabbing the doorknob he pulled it open and walked in, tossing his keys on one of the end stands by the couch. "I'm back." He called, not expecting to hear anything, but the baritone voice that called back from the office made him grin.

"Yay." It sounded sarcastically unimpressed. John chuckled and shook his head, heading into the office. The spirit stood in front of the book case, rearranging the books so they were better categorized. John didn't say anything, instead he stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, leaning against the door frame and watched. Sherlock worked in silence for a while like this, taking books down and moving them before speaking finally. "Are you going to say something, or does the allure of watching a ghost re-categorize your library mesmerize you?" He questioned, flipping through a few of the pages of an old copy of _The Moon And Sixpence_.

"Can you even read?" John asked curiously. The ghosts eyes snapped shut as he slammed the book shut, causing John to jump in alarm. He turned, looking at him through narrow eyes.

"John. I'm white and I'm wealthy...or was. I'm educated and worked with Scotland Yard. Please think before you ask questions lest this book finds its way mysteriously fluttering across the room with enough force to knock some stupid out of you." He turned and placed the book in its respected place.

"So you can read?" John pressed, now just doing it to see the detectives reaction. Sherlock stopped and whirled around, a coy smile on his face.

"No, John. I just kept a library of books so that I may boost my seat up to sit over my ever towering cherry wood desk that once held all of the important documents I once pretended to know how to write on so that I may continue to fool the world into thinking that I, Sherlock Holmes is indeed, educated." His smile vanished from his face as he walked around his desk and made his way towards John.

John took a large step back, both avoiding the ghost and making sure he wasn't in his way. The ghost looked at him, upper lip curling as he scoffed. "Would you stop that?" He walked past him, making his way for the dining room. John looked after him confused for a moment before following.

"Stop what?" He questioned, wondering what he did wrong.

"The whole..." His face crinkled as he pressed his lips together, his head shaking a bit as he gestured with his hand. "Moving out of the way thing. It's irritating."

"So my manners are irritating?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"You moving out of the way as if a single touch by me would condemn you to hell." He whirled around on his heel, looking him dead in the eye. "Look!" He snatched his hand out, grabbing John's. John gasped, trying to pull back but he wasn't quite fast enough. Sherlock grabbed his arm, sliding his hand up John's jumper sleeve. "See?" John stared down, his heart stopping dead in his chest, his air hitched in his throat in fear until he felt it. The softness of the mans hand, wrapped around his wrist. The coldness of his flesh was like ice, but it seemed to warm up almost like fire.

"What?" John stared down at the fingers. It felt almost as if his very atoms were moving to outline the mans fingertips and ignite. Sherlock looked at him confused for a moment then let go, pulling his hands away.

"See? Nothing to worry about." He turned and continued making his way through the dining room. Reaching the back door he grabbed the door knob and pulled it open. John couldn't help but stand there in silence and gawk at the area where they'd touched.

After a minute of silence he looked up and made his way out onto the porch. Sherlock stood there, his eyes looking out over the sea. His hair was barely touched by the sea breeze as the jacket he had on -that had been absent the first time John had seen him- blew like a satin sheet. "You can touch me?" John asked, looking at him. Sherlock turned, looking at him, his lips pursed in thought.

"Hm?" His forehead crinkled.

"You can touch me." John said again, his voice raising as the reality of the matter sank in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back over the ocean.

"Of course I can touch you. This is where I died, this is where I manifest." He explained as if John should have already known this. "This is my dwelling and as such I cannot leave this property. But I can touch everything and feel everything that happens to me as long as it happens right, here."

"So if I shot you..."

"I would feel it." He glared back at John. "Do it and I'll make you feel it too. I can feel everything, pain, pleasure, fear, sorrow, blah, blah, blah I just can't die from it." He leaned against the wall, wiping his thumb under his nose.

"So in every sense you're alive?" He took a seat in the lawn chair he had sat in the day before.

"In every sense I'm an ectoplasmic shell of a living human being cursed to sit for eternity in one of my most hated dwellings in life." He muttered, putting an extra little push on the word hated, his upper lip curling a bit. He didn't seem too pleased about it, but John could tell from a look in his eyes that he'd come to accept it in similar to the way soldiers accept death in war.

"You hate being here?" John asked, confused. It was a nice house and big. It was peaceful. He chuckled, his eyes darting back and forth as the sea rolled up over the sandy shore before being sucked back out. "Why? It's peaceful here."

"What is it like in that funny little head of yours? No sense of adventure. It must be so boring." He turned and looked at John. A slight look of offense rolled over the doctors face, his lips pursed. "I was a detective. The best detective in London, the worlds only consulting detective. I woke up, ate breakfast and went out. All over London and Bristol and just...all over England!" He reflected, a smile coming to his face. "A woman would be murdered and days later I would have found the man who did it where it would take Scotland Yard weeks! All over England!" His voice rose, passion coming through. "I was the best and I prided myself in it. There was nothing that I didn't know, nothing I couldn't find out." John listened carefully, his head propped up on his knuckles.

"I bet your wife was proud too." He agreed. Sherlock stopped, whirling around. He looked at John confused.

"What?" John stopped, staring at him. Had he made an incorrect assumption about him? Surely he had been married. Or at least engaged. A wealthy white male, age 30 or so...what if he was younger than he looked?

"I-I'm sorry. How old are you?" John dropped his hand to his lap. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"When I was alive?" The detective looked at him curiously. "I died at the age of...33." He thought, biting his lip. "No, I had just turned 34."

"And you were married, right?" John questioned, licking his dry lips a bit. Sherlock didn't answer right away. His eyes glued to John's, a frown on his face.

"No. I was never married." He sat in the chair beside John. "For what it's worth." John looked at him sympathetically.

"You at least had a girlfriend, yeah?" He tried.

"I don't like girls." The ghost looked down at his fingers, picking at them. John felt a little heat rush up his neck to his cheeks at that. He coughed a bit, feeling awkward.

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock stopped and looked up confused.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you have a boyfriend?" John asked again. Sherlock stared at him, his lips parted ever so slightly. John could see that the question was a random one for him. "Not...that there was anything wrong with it."

"Society seemed to think so." Sherlock rushed as John attempted to defend it. "No, I was dedicated to my work." He looked down at his lap. "I'm flattered you would risk your life to let me know you think of me like that-"

"What?" John gasped. "No, no!" He laughed nervously. "I'm...I'm not gay."

"I didn't mention anything about being gay." The detectives nose crinkled as he looked up at John. "I was talking about homosexuality."

"Ah, yeah, no I know." John placed his face I'm his hand, trying to cover his blush.

"Then why mention emotion?" Sherlock shot back.

"No, um..." John looked up at him, biting his lip. "In today's society, gay is a slang term for homosexual." He explained.

"Why? That is absolutely pathetically daft." Sherlock insulted. "You take a perfectly positive word and warp it's meaning to a derogatory connotation because you normal people are too lazy to say 'homosexual'." He spat. "'Oh you're gay' 'thank you I try'" he shook his head, his hands splayed out in disbelief, his expression twisted as if saying _fucking pack of morons!_

John couldn't help but laugh, nodding. "No, I know."

"What other words have you people transposed?" He looked at the doctor.

"Well," John started. "Homosexuals are also called fags." He looked back at the detective, waiting to see his reaction. The ghost didn't disappoint. He groaned loudly, covering his face with his hands.

"Sweet mother of Mary why?" He fell quiet, then sprung up energetically, sitting to the front of his chair, his arm outstretched as if he were hailing a cab. "Yes sir I would enjoy a fag! Please bring me my cutter so that I might cut the tip cleanly!" John laughed, admittedly, a little too hard. "Oh bother, it seems I have forgotten my hanky for I have drooled down the shaft of my fag." Sherlock carried on. "With every inhale it leaks into my mouth, bitter bitter stuff these fags." He snickered, looking at John who was trying to keep himself composed, his face red from laughing. "I'm not gay until I get my morning fag."

"Stop!" John coughed, choking a bit. "Please, we get it!" He wiped a couple tears from his eyes. He had to admit, he hadn't laughed that hard since he was overseas with his team. It felt good -minus the throbbing in his lungs.

"So what else?" Sherlock crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair, looking at him. John chuckled a bit more, letting himself calm down before he spoke.

"Well, people call each other retarded and the mentally handicapped retards." He grimaced at the thought.

"Retard meaning slow, I suppose I can understand why people would. Slow at learning, slow at understanding, slow at comprehension. Though that term was coined for music, it's a bit harsh to call someone that." He mused. "You're a retard." He shivered. "It's always been such an ugly word."

"What did you call the mentally retarded in your time?" John questioned curiously.

"People." Sherlock looked back, his eyebrows raised. John stared at him, feeling a bit guilty. Had things really changed that much in that amount of time? Staring into the ghosts face he saw his blue eyes. They were almost pure, devoid of the perversion he saw in a lot of people now a days. He wasn't sure if it was death or the simplicity of his life that caused that. John couldn't help but stare, wondering what this man had seen with his beautiful, unnaturally saturated blue eyes that made the ocean look like a dull gray in comparison. "Or ill." Sherlock looked away, back out to the ocean. "But people none-the-less."

"Didn't your people send them to asylums?" John questioned curiously.

"For help and nurture. Yes." He admitted. "Apparently that never happened." John frowned. They were both quiet for a long while, just listening to the waves crash against the shore. Feeling the warm breeze turn slightly chilled as it blew through their hair. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting it rush over him. John almost felt bad about interrupting him.

"So...where did you go earlier?" John questioned, his fingers pulling at the collar of his jumper.

"Meaning?" The detective kept his eyes closed as his head tilted back a bit, exposing his long, slender pale neck and a single beauty mark just below his jaw.

"You were telling me when you died and then you just...vanished." The ghosts eyes opened once more. He nodded, his lips pressed tight before parting.

"I crashed." He admitted.

"You...what?" John looked at him confused.

"I crashed" He repeated. When John's look of vacancy remained he sighed and turned to explained. "You see, spirits need energy to function, just like every other thing on the earth. Using your brain takes up energy, moving stuff without touching it, haunting...those all take up energy. When I chased Alienia out of here -hopefully for good this time- I used up an awful lot of my energy and I crashed," He smiled. "Like a little ghost nap. If you're someone like me who used a lot of energy in life what with deductions and running around, you get more energy to spend if you become a ghost. If you're lazy and you try to spend as much as someone like me then you'll crash for a lot longer." He explained. "So if I were to tear apart this house or really haunt you, I would crash for at least a couple of months."

"So when a place is haunted and someone tries to bring someone in to see if it is haunted and they find nothing..."

"The ghost is still there, just resting." Sherlock smiled. "Remain within your limit, think very little and you'll stay awake for years." He turned his attention back to the ocean. "But in the end you will crash."

"So it's like a battery." John mused. Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyes glued to the ocean. Then it hit John. "You said 'hopefully for good'." He looked at the ghost.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, but he didn't elaborate.

"What did you mean by that?" John pushed. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. He was beginning to feel tired already. All of these questions...he was beginning to suspect John was purposely trying to make him crash.

"Exactly what I said." He muttered. John waited, watching the detective. When he kept silent he sarcastically grinned.

"And?" The detective sighed irritatedly then looked back at him.

"For the last 40 years she has been making a deal with me. When Greg attempted to find a tenant for the house, I would do my haunting, they would go to her, she'd bring them here, I'd chase them out. She got business, I was left alone." He explained quickly. John was actually shocked by that, his jaw dropping.

"So she knew from the start?" He rose his voice.

"Oh good, you catch on quick." Sherlock muttered.

"So you attempted to scare me away by terrifying me into going to a woman you were in cahoots with!?" He stood, yelling now.

"Cahoots?" Sherlock muttered, a small smile on his face that lasted for just a moment before fading. "Why do you sound so offended?"

"Because you scared the shit out of me!" John snarled. "And then I wasted money for that phony woman! Why aren't you trying to chase me out now if you want to be alone so bad, huh?!" He turned and made for the door, but in the blink of an eye Sherlock was in the way, blocking him. "Move!" John growled, but Sherlock refused, grabbing his arms.

"Because I don't want you to go." He replied, grabbing John's arms, trying to stop him.

"And why not? It's not like you wanted me here to begin with!" John pushed him away. He forced himself past Sherlock and made his way into the living room, feeling played.

"I'm tired of being alone!" The detective called after him, his chest aching as if there were a heart to beat within his ribs. John stopped, his anger almost vanishing completely as the words hit him. "That was why I chased her away. I'm tired of being alone," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Years and years I've chased people away thinking I wanted to be alone and then I suffer in a dull house. The smell of burnt wood and dust and spiderwebs. No one to talk to, nothing to accomplish." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "You came and you weren't like the others. You were like me, alone. No dogs, no filthy fingered children, no...four...wheeled...planks of wood scratching up my floors." He looked at him feeling almost desperate. "I'm tired of being alone, and if I am to have anyone to share my home with, I want it to be you." He spoke softly now.

John turned, looking back at the serious expression on his face, his blue eyes glowing in the dark light of the living room like fluorescent marbles. He began feeling guilty for reacting so harsh. He sighed, itching the back of his head in defeat. He couldn't imagine what it was like being stuck to this property. No one to talk to, no contact with anyone, unable to sleep unless he crashed. He looked back up at Sherlock after a minute and sighed deeply once again. "I won't leave." Sherlock smiled gently, fixing his coat. "But when I have guests over-"

"Don't worry, they won't find out I exist." He smiled and shrugged his coat off, dropping it to the floor. It vanished into nothing as he walked for the dining room. "As a toast to our bunkering, I will make dinner." He made his way for the stove but John rushed over, grabbing his waist, pulling him away and spun him redirecting him towards the dining room. Sherlock turned, slightly confused as John slid into his position.

"I'll make dinner, you just..." He turned the pilot light on, the gas flaring to life making the ghost jump a bit. "Keep me company, eh?" John smiled. Sherlock didn't argue, feeling a slight bubble of awkward fear as his eyes rested on the flames. He took a seat at the dining room table, rolling up his sleeves a little, fixing the slight poofiness of his shirt sleeves. Reaching down he unbuttoned his silk vest and let it fall away into nothing.

"Fair enough." He said, pulling the cravat from his neck and sending that plummeting into nothing shortly after the vest.

"You were saying when you died earlier before you vanished." John started, getting the food out, enough to make food for two.

"Only make some for yourself." He told him before running his fingers through his hair. "Yes...19...33 I believe." He admitted.

"But you knew of lobotomies which didn't start becoming a wide practice until 1935." John said, looking back over his shoulder, putting the second half of the ingredients away.

"I died in 1933. My employer and friend Greg Lestrade rebuilt the house. For many years he believed that I could hear him if he spoke to me while at the house. He didn't know I was a ghost." He unbuttoned the first couple buttons of his shirt and sighed comfortably. "He gave me updates about the world. Asylum conditions, wars, crimes. Everything." He rested his chin on his hands, watching John.

He couldn't help but notice the way the doctor held himself. His strong squared shoulders, hidden by a modest jumper that tapered into his backside. "I take it it didn't last long." John questioned. Sherlock sighed a bit, letting his hands hit the table.

"No," he shook his head. "He came almost everyday for a year, then would come twice a week." He looked at the wall for a moment. John turned around too look at him as the food cooked on low heat. "When he had his child he stopped coming altogether."

"Mr. Albott?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Carl Albott, born Carl Lestrade married Nancy Albott." Sherlock confirmed. "Greg retired in 1949 at the age of 50. At 53 he had Carl. Greg Lestrade died at the age of 97." He explained.

"But...Carl isn't that old." John looked at him confused, wondering if the ghost was fluent in math or if it was just an odd calculation.

"Carl is 66 or 67 years old." Sherlock looked at him. "He's kept good care of his body, he does look younger than he is, but I say I have him beat." He grinned. John chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back around to flip his food. "So I was caught up for the most part until about...40 some odd years ago." He sighed.

"And all of this time...you went 40 years without talking to anyone besides Alienia." John mused, thinking over how horrible of an existence that would be.

"I only spoke to her maybe once every few months. And that was just to make sure our agreement was still on. She never saw me, we never sat and had a full fledged conversation." He looked back at John.

"She never saw you? Like...this you mean?" Sherlock nodded. "Actually, I'm surprised that you look the way you do." He placed the lid back on the pan and turned around to pay full attention to him. Sherlock cast him a curious glance, waiting. "You said you died in a fire. The fire itself killed you, not the smoke. Ghosts are normally supposed to take the form of when they die." He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter.

"Ah," Sherlock snickered. "Yes, I suppose that is a good question. Obviously ghosts have a control over what they look like within reason. How they are represented." He agreed. "Did you want me to walk around as I did when my heart stopped?" Sherlock offered, pushing himself to his feet. John looked at him, his heart starting to race a bit. He was curious. Curious as to how it looked. He nodded slowly.

Sherlock smiled and slowly a flame ignited, burning through his cheek. His eyeballs melted in his skull, his hair melting as his clothes burned, melting to his flesh. His mouth opened as his skin bubbled and popped, burning away to expose his teeth. He howled in agony, hands going to his face as the room filled with smoke from the flames that touched the ceiling but left no mark.

John screamed, staring in horror at the burning body ahead of him, his tongue melting almost like tar, dripping out of his mouth and into the floor. "Stop! Stop!" John screamed, covering his face against the heat of the flames. In a second, it was all gone. "Son of a bitch." He shook, his fingers pressing into his eyes. Sherlock grinned, watching until he saw a single tear hit john's cheek. The doctor couldn't believe that anyone had to live through that to that level. It was cruel, and sickening.

Sherlock stared at him, his smile gone. "I didn't suffer long." He said finally after minutes of silence that was only interrupted by John's occasional cussing and muttering.

"You shouldn't have suffered at all!" John snarled. "For anyone to go through with that." He choked a bit. He had treated and seen many wounds, never once had he seen someone burn like that.

Sherlock felt a bit flattered at how worked up a complete stranger was getting over his death -God knows if anyone else had felt the same when he died. He sat back down, nodding his head a bit. "It is awful." He admitted.

"I hope that he rotted in that prison cell until the day he drew his last, filthy breath!" John growled, slamming his fist against the cupboard behind him. The adrenaline flowing through his veins covering up the pain that ran up through his fingers as his knuckles scraped the drawer knob.

"He was never caught." Sherlock replied, crossing his legs, his elbow propped up on the table, his chin resting against his knuckles. He looked at John seriously. All expression of joy that he had had before disappearing completely off of his face. John's anger seemed to drain from his face, warping to an expression of helplessness. But in the blink of an eye it was back to anger. Only this time it was more of a sad anger.

"What do you mean he was never caught? Didn't Lestrade know who you were tailing?" John whimpered. Sherlock nodded, a look on his face that said _of course I told him. I'm not an idiot_.

"Of course I told Lestrade, but after he killed me he seemed to vanish off of the face of the planet." He dismissed it almost idly as his eyes dropped down to his nails. "Of course Lestrade spent the next...20 years trying to find him. Found him on my birthday trying to hitch a ride to Germany." His eyes glided up to John to look at his expression.

"But you said he was never caught." John's forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. A wicked smile stretched across the ghosts face, his own eyes narrowing in response.

"He was never caught. Or rather, he was never captured and brought into custody. Lestrade shot him on the spot. Emptied an entire thing of rounds into the bastard, reloaded and emptied those bullets into him as well. One bullet for every year I'd spent dead. One bullet for every year I was needed but Lestrade couldn't call on me." Sherlock hummed a bit, looking up pleased with it. "21 bullets in total. 20 for every year I'd spend dead, and 1 bullet for my revenge. He'd collected the shells afterward and placed them on a chain and brought them here to the house." John sighed, feeling happy that they'd caught him, but at the same time felt that Lestrade had gone too far.

Turning John finished cooking his food and stared at it in the pan. He surprisingly was not hungry -especially not after watching a human being burn to death in his living room. Sighing again he grabbed a plate and put his food on it and wrapped it in tin foil. Turning he tucked it into the fridge. "I'm sorry but...I didn't get much sleep last night what with panicking about you being in my house." John closed the fridge again, his hand remaining on the handle as his free hand moved up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache coming on. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night." He looked up, forcing a smile.

"Sleep well." The ghost bid, his fingertips pressed together in front of his face. John turned, making his way to the living room but stopped, remembering one more question he wanted an answer to. Whirling around, his hands pressed against each side of the doorway as if trying to block Sherlock from escaping.

The detective looked up at him curiously, waiting for John to say what he was going to say. John's mouth hung open as he tried to search for the right thing to say and debated on whether or not he actually wanted an answer to it, but finally decided. "Did you watch me in the bath?" Sherlock stared at him, a slow smile moving to his face, his blue eyes narrowing.

"Goodnight John." John stared at him, his lips pressed together tightly, his eyebrows furrowed a bit. He gave a quick nod, both eyebrows raising as he turned around again. He wasn't sure if that smile meant that the had or not, but he wasn't going to push it. He made his way through the office and up the stairs, running his fingers through his hair.

As he stripped to his underwear he couldn't help but wonder if he was insane for staying in a house with a ghost. At least...he deserved a chance. Right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Note: **Sorry for this taking so long. I've been trying to work through migraines -which hasn't been working out very well. I'll try to get back into updating more often.

Also first half was typed on iPod, second half wasn't. Still will be some grammar errors -as I said I've been working on this blind, literally. I've had to type over 90% of this chapter with my eyes closed so my eyes could rest. So yeah, sorry for anything that doesn't make sense.

Also I do not live in the UK so my apologies for any wrong information. I'm just kind of one of those American's who secretly wishes that we aren't the only stiff jerks on the face of the planet who would sooner kill someone for something stupid. Like our lovely reaction to homosexuals and wholehearted racism even though the US is composed solely of immigrants.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

John's eyes cracked open a bit, the sunlight coming in through the window. He stretched, his arms stretching up over his head as he slowly woke up. Carefully he extended his legs until his heels collided with a body. Curiously he looked down, seeing the detective laying at the foot of his bed, his hands pressed together in front of his face as if he were praying. "Jesus!" John sat up quickly, pulling his legs back.

"Good morning." The ghost greeted, not opening his eyes or really acknowledging his existence.

"How many times have I told you not to do that?" John growled, pulling his blankets up to his chest. Sherlock looked up at him curiously, his head tilted to the side a bit, his hands remaining in the same spot. This was how John had awoken almost everyday for the past 3 months.

At first life seemed intimidating; living with a ghost. But after a while, John just realized that it was like living with a roommate. A really, irritating roommate who did a wonderful impression of an asshole almost 24/7. It seemed as if the spirit had absolutely no concept of what personal space was, or if he did then he didn't care.

"It's not my fault you chose this bed to do your...human unconscious thing." Sherlock muttered, his eyes slipping closed again. John stared at him with a quizzical expression.

"Why the hell are you saying that?" He groaned, rubbing his eyes. He was not awake to deal with this. Rolling over, Sherlock propped his head up on his hand, looking at John.

"I read one of your books. Last night, when you were asleep. That...trite you call literature. _How to Cope with Spirits_? Really John?" He looked at him incredulously.

"You're a ghost," John attempted to defend himself. "How am I supposed to know how to live with a ghost!"

"How about you pretend that I was a human being at one point in time and live with me like that?" Sherlock retorted offensively.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," John rested his face in his palm, really, _really_ too tired to deal with this. "But you're a _ghost_. I don't know what ghosts do or how to handle living with them. Partially because I've never done it before!" He glared at the ghost. Sherlock snorted and rolled towards John, his stomach pinning his feet to the bed.

"Then choose a different manual. For Christ's sake that writer believes we have forgotten all actions we did in life, hence your unconsciousness." He sneered. "In fact you know I remember all of those things."

"Yes yes I specifically remember you telling me not to panic if I woke up from a dead sleep with a pillow over my face." John glared at him.

"An experiment. I want to see how long it takes a person to suffocate in his sleep." Sherlock defended innocently.

"Within 3 minutes!" John growled, more than happy to answer the spirits curiousness -even if it were to only open up another slot for another terrifying experiment.

"Really?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose, seeming almost fascinated by the thought. "On average?"

"Yes! Now get out of my room!" He pulled on the blanket, making the detective roll off of his feet.

"Why? This is as much my room as it is yours." Sherlock sat up, catching himself before he rolled off the end of the bed.

"Yes but I'm indecent and I wish to get dressed." John said through clenched teeth.

"What matter of indecent?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, adjusting his shirt. He sat with a grand form of great posture. He rarely slouched and when he did it was only for a few moments when he was in deep thought. The doctor groaned, rolling his eyes. He couldn't believe he had to spell it out for the detective. For being a genius he could really be ignorant.

"I'm naked, Sherlock." He said simply, his heavy eyes narrow.

"Oh," the detective didn't move, unbuttoning a couple of his upper buttons then stopped, a look of clarification coming to his face. "Oh. Right, well then." He pushed himself up, making his way for the door. "Quickly get dressed. The paper has arrived." He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open.

"What about the guy coming by to hook up Internet?" John questioned before he stepped out, curious.

"The what?" The detective looked at him confused, causing John to sigh.

"Man in a big vehicle to plug in a little box that will help me have conversations with people across the world in a matter of seconds?"

"There was a man that came by earlier. He told me to let you know he would be back around noon." Sherlock nodded. The doctor's jaw dropped, a look of horror replacing his once irritated expression.

"You answered the door?!"

"Why do you always yell at me? It's like pressing a dwarfs pissy switch." He muttered, questioning to himself more than John but doing it loud enough for him to hear. "Of course I answered the door, he knocked."

"Do you answer the door for everyone who knocks?" John retorted, then stopped. "He saw you."

"That's the reason I answered. I was trying to get a good look at him. Most people don't believe in ghosts, but those who do will see me if I'm not hidden." Sherlock agreed, pressing his hands against his thighs, rubbing them. John's eyes dropped down, staring at the ghost's slender fingers, dragging across his thin thighs as if he were wiping off sweaty palms. Slowly they closed, a feeling of nervousness coming over him.

"What did he say?" John swallowed, not expecting it to have a very good ending, forgetting completely the fact that Sherlock had mentioned before that the guy was coming back at noon. Sherlock noted the nervousness in his housemate's face. He couldn't hold back the slight grin that dominated his straight features, his arms crossing as he rested his back against the door frame.

"Well, he thought we were lovers, for one." He said in a matter of fact tone. The words caused John's eyes to snap open again in shock, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart skipped a worried beat, then pounded twice as fast to make up for it.

"You corrected him, right?"

"Of course I corrected him, John. I wouldn't want to be a victim of a hate crime for something so dull." He muttered then stopped, a sarcastic smile coming to his face. "Oh right, I'm already dead."

"Why do you keep bringing up homosexuality as if it's condemning, and would you get out of the room?!" John hissed, shooing at him with a wave of his hands. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned, trudging out of the room, shutting the door behind him all but a crack.

"When I was alive a lot of people didn't accept homosexuality. You were expected to keep your mouth closed lest you provoke someone. Buggery was unlawful until the 1930's, and while views on homosexuality shifted and varied, it became a little more tolerated after the first World War." The detective said from the hallway.

"But you're not a homosexual." John stretched a bit, taking the time to wake up before hopping right out of bed -now that he had his privacy.

"No, I'm not. I showed no interest in men, but all the same, I showed no interest in women either. So naturally I was thought to be a 'hiding homosexual'." he explained. John could hear the air quotes around the name, his forehead crinkling. "You know how rumor is. You don't participate in the the jargon of hormonally challenged members of your same sex and you automatically get pinned with the worst." he muttered.

"They thought you were gay?" John looked up surprised. "Who?"

"Military." Sherlock confirmed. "I was in the first World War when the rumor broke out. Followed my brother into combat. We were in the same unit. I suppose they figured best have both sons die off at once. I broke rules multiple times and snuck into his bunker to sleep with him." He mused, sounding as if he were regretting the decision.

"How old were you?" John looked up at the door, understanding why the others might have thought he was homosexual.

"17. My brother practically raised me. My father was always away and my mother was no better." He sighed. "I had shared a bed with my brother since I was 4 years old, and watching people get shot...well, I'm not one to search for comfort but it was necessary. I never got caught physically sneaking out, but rumor did fly."

"What happened? Why did you leave the military?" John laid back against the headboard, wanting to know more about the detective's past.

"Ah," Sherlock laughed. "A bullet ended my military career. A bullet from my own teammate. Claims it was on accident and got away with it. Got me right through my upper thigh. I was shipped home, my brother dishonorably discharged after getting into a brawl with a general. He took care of me." He sounded chipper, as if the memory made him happy. "I struggled with a fever that almost claimed my life for a week from infection. Obviously I got past it and decided to become a detective instead. Consulting detective. And although my brother was dishonorably discharged he was given a minor position in the government. Or...I say minor." He trailed off. "Let's say people weren't fond of homosexuals. Typically it was the Christian's that posed as a problem." Pulling the blankets back John slipped out of bed and made his way for the dresser.

"It's not really that bad now. It's relatively tolerated now." John said, opening his underwear drawer to see his undies categorized by color and special occasion. "For the love of-" he dragged his hand down the front of his face. Grabbing his robe he slipped it on and made his way to the door, pulling it open. The detective looked down at him in surprise -having heard John make such a fuss over getting dressed he at least thought the doctor would put more on than a robe. "What did you do?" John looked back at the dresser to indicate what he was referring to.

"I organized your dresser, honestly John, no wonder it takes you an hour to get dressed, you have no sense of organization-"

"Excuse me." The shorter man's eyes narrowed. "You were playing around with my knickers. That drawer is personal and I would prefer it if you didn't touch them." He said sternly but all Sherlock did was snicker.

"You're embarrassed." He pushed himself off of the door frame and towered over him.

"No, no I'm not-"

"Yes you are," Sherlock interrupted. "Your cheeks have flushed slightly in color-"

"It's because I'm mad." John interrupted but the detective continued on.

"Good cover, but embarrassment starts in the ears, anger starts in the forehead and cheeks and your forehead has remained a lovely white while your ears-"

"Alright piss off." John shut the door in his face. He turned away from the door and made his way for his closet. Grabbing the door he pulled it open only to find that his jumpers had been arranged as well, just like his underwear. "Stop touching my clothes!" He hollered, but truthfully, he liked it. Sherlock had organized his clothes into simple colors and seasons. Heavier jumpers to the far right of the closet, summer shirts to the left, fall in the middle, spring in between fall and winter -from warmest to coldest. Special occasion and dressy shirts separated by a beaded, hanging divider -which looked ancient.

"I'm only trying to help, John." Sherlock called back, voice muffled by the door. "You spend 15 minutes looking for a pair of underwear, like anyone will see them."

"I don't take that long!" John snorted, staring at a single jumper. He was debating on whether or not he really wanted to wear that one or if he should choose something else. He hadn't checked the weather yet and he really didn't want to get stuck wearing a heavy jumper if it was going to be relatively warm outside.

"Just grab the damn jumper John! The paper is here!"

"Then go read the damn paper and let me get dressed!" There was silence. John waited for a reply, when he didn't receive one he turned his attention back to the jumper. Suddenly an irritated groan reached his ears.

"Don't wear a jumper! Wear a button up shirt and let's go!" He clapped his hands obnoxiously on the other side of the door. Rolling his eyes John grabbed a white button up shirt and a t-shirt from his drawer, then nabbed a pair of jeans. Heading to the door he opened it and held up his clothes. The detective sighed in relief, stepping back. "Finally."

"I need a shower." John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, his hand going to his forehead.

"John, there is a newspaper downstairs." John ignored him, making for the bathroom. Sherlock followed him.

"Go. Read. It." John opened the door, each word short and punctual.

"I. Don't. Understand. What. They're. Talking. About!" Sherlock hissed in return as John set his clothes up on the counter. He didn't look up, spinning his finger, telling him to turn around. Sherlock turned, the hiss of the water turning on making him jump a bit.

"What's so hard to understand about it?" John questioned, slipping his robes off. He turned and tossed them up over the ghosts head as if he were a coat rack, then stepped in, pulling the curtain closed.

"What is a cellphone? What is a viper? What is a glock? Why do they use the word 'nigga' as a term of endearment? What the hell does 'mah homie Jareed official, he like da pussy' even mean?!" Sherlock ripped the robes from his head, his black curls sticking up everywhere.

"They put that in the paper?" John was shocked. "Normally they try to touch up the language a bit. "I take it it was an attack. Jareed likes a woman, something happened and one of them was killed." John guessed. "You read a witness statement."

"I would have beaten my child to a twitching pile of goo if he were to speak like that." Sherlock muttered, holding the robes in his hand. "You're British for God's sake, have a little pride and say real words."

"It's this whole Pop and rap thing I guess." John agreed, grabbing the shampoo. Sherlock's forehead crinkled as the smell of John's shampoo reached his nose.

"I don't really know what those are." He admitted.

"Pop or Rap?" John stopped, looking up rather surprised even though he knew the detective couldn't see it. "They're genres of music."

"I was never one to venture past classical." Sherlock admitted. "I prefer a violin to vocals."

"Oh we can fix that." John grinned. He was excited to see how the detective would react to modern music, but the meaning was construed a bit in Sherlock's mind.

The spirit looked back, his lips parted. The image of John making him moan quickly flashing through his mind. "Excuse me?"

"I know some great bands. You died before some of the greatest singers hit the stage. Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, The Ink Spots, The Andrew Sisters, then you have rock like Metallica, Black Sabbath. You missed out on the Backstreet Boys and Michael Jackson. Britney Spears and No Doubt or TLC. Those are just the American bands." Sherlock adverted his eyes, feeling silly for having jumped to conclusions like that.

"I suppose I have nothing better to do." He muttered, rubbing the robes between his fingertips. He stood still in the middle of the bathroom, the smell of John's shampoo hitting his nose, followed by a musk that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up a bit. "What is that?" His forehead crinkled as he looked up at the shower. The way the light hit the curtains, the doctor's figure could be seen as a silhouette.

"What's what?" John pinched his eyes closed as he rinsed his hair completely, his nose crinkled as a stray bit of shampoo found it's way under his eyelids -like every single time he took a shower.

"That musky smell." Sherlock said, draping the robes over an arm, his fingers caressing the cloth. It was a nice quality of fabric and he enjoyed the texture of it against his skin. Back when he had been alive, the materials that were needed to make something like that robe would have cost a bit. Someone like John -who had no job- could afford it now, which made him both excited yet depressed.

"Oh," John spit some of the water from his mouth. "Bvlgari body wash. I get it every year for Christmas, Harry like's to buy it for me even though it's expensive." He said, running his hands over his body to rinse it off. "Why?"

"It smells..." He trailed off, trying to find the right word that would get his point across yet not frighten the doctor. Because to be truthful, it was an arousing scent. "Delectable." He grunted, adding finally after a minute of silence. He was sure that that would make John feel awkward. But when John laughed, Sherlock adverted his eyes, feeling slightly ashamed.

"It's a great body wash." John agreed. "Strong, sexy. Too expensive."

"But worth it I suppose." Sherlock looked down at the robes, then for a moment lifted them to his face, smelling them. They had the faint smell of his body wash on it mixed with soap from the wash and something else. Sweat. Sweat from the times he had fallen asleep in it. Sweat from the nights when the heat never escaped the house and remained trapped in the upstairs.

"Eh, I suppose. I mean a little goes a long way. I just feel bad that Harry keeps spending so much money on it every year." The shower turned off. Sherlock's head snapped up as the curtain shifted a bit, his arm slipping out from behind it. "Can you grab me my towel please?"

The detective didn't say anything as he turned around and grabbed a fluffy white towel off of the hook on the door and rested it in the doctor's hand.

"Harry, is that your sister?" Sherlock questioned, wanting to keep the conversation going so that he wouldn't be caught in an awkward silence, even as he felt his fatigue starting to wear on him. He had been doing a lot of talking and reading and moving around the last few months and he knew that soon he might crash. Not to mention that the date was approaching sooner than he'd wanted to.

"Yeah, she's uh...the dark haired one." John wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out onto the mat at the base of the tub. "Well...darker haired one. The tall one who normally wears the pants." John struggled a bit, trying to find a good way to describe her. Fortunately for him, Sherlock knew who he was talking about.

"The one who helped you paint the downstairs." He nodded, the dressing robes draped over his arm like a hand towel over a butler's arm. "Why not just tell her that you don't want her spending that much money on you?" He questioned. He never really understood why people continued to accept gifts even when they didn't want them. The first few times he'd received anything as a gift, he appreciated it, but when someone gave him the same thing over and over again he couldn't help but feel a bit irritated -and he didn't hesitate to let the person know exactly how he felt about it either.

"I have, but she hummed and hawed over what to get me for the next couple years. I told her nothing, she didn't have to get me anything, but then she was right back to buying me the body wash so I don't even bother now."

"'hummed and hawed'" The detective's nose crinkled as he repeated the saying. John snickered staring at him for a moment before shaking his head.

"Taking a long time to make a decision." He explained simply.

"I see." He trailed off, his eyes glued to John for a long moment before dropping the robes to the floor and turning, making for the door. "The paper, John." The doctor groaned, rolling his eyes. Bending down he grabbed his robes off of the floor and watched as the ghost slipped out through the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" He brushed the cloth off before hanging it up. Sherlock made his way down the hall, his mind swimming with a thousand and one thoughts. New slang, new music, new _friend_. Everything was new to him now. 40 years since his last minimum contact with anyone and suddenly his world was exploding with new things.

He made his way through the office to the kitchen where he had left the paper and sat down, staring at it. It had been a long time since he'd read anything that was up to date. All of his books were old -1930 being the last publish dated book to enter the house. None of them had the recent slang that littered this day and ages paper. He understood most of it, but some words were used in some ways that didn't make sense to him. Sentence structures were the same but the way they were formed were exhausting to read. Lack of punctuation or too much in too many places felt like an icepick being jammed into his temple as he tried to read it. Sometimes the paragraph would go on for multiple lines before there would be a period. There were a lot of _he said she said they said interview_'s that irritated him. It was as if the person who had written the article didn't give a toss.

That was probably it. They didn't give a toss about who could understand it. ADD, Sherlock imagined, judging by the persons inability to form a coherent sentence based solely on one point at a time. And while Sherlock could read, he'd always had difficulty with it anyway -something he would never tell John. It was a weakness for him, and an embarrassing one. He could write and read the words perfectly, but it was as if when he tried reading his mind whipped up a giant dictionary and threw thousands of meanings at him all at once that he would have to cycle through. And while it only took a couple of seconds to find the right definition, he would end up losing the meaning of the sentence and have to re-read it all over again -which was difficult to do when you had a run-on sentence whose only saving grace was comma's.

He tried to read it again but stopped when his mind stopped on a word and flipped through the pages of his mental dictionary and the rest of the sentence was lost. He closed his eyes, waiting for John to come downstairs. What was taking him so long anyway? He wanted to know what was going on in the world and the murder articles had him anxious. He wanted to know the details. The victim, the situation, where she was found. This was a new world, which meant new challenges. New ways to hide the bodies, new ways to kill the person and new crime scenes all together.

Idly he tapped his fingers on the table, staring at the newspaper. Sighing he leaned back and hollered. "John!" The doctor yelled back, his words muffled and incoherent but Sherlock knew what was said. Leaning back in his chair he placed his legs on top of the table, tilting his head back. He thought of his life, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't died. Well, obviously he wouldn't be alive at that moment. He never would have gotten the chance to meet John. Not that that would have mattered. If he hadn't of died he wouldn't even know that John existed before he died of natural causes -old age or accidental work related injuries.

What ever happened to Mycroft? Did he grow old and live a happy life with a family? Or did he have an unfortunate demise at the hands of a rogue sweet. That single donut that caused the strenuous weight of his double chin to finally crush his weakened trachea, the only thing keeping his throat from collapsing like the paper shielding of a restaurant straw being the half chewed pastry that had clung greedily to the sides of his brother's acidic murder chute? A smile came to his face as it ran through his mind. Had his brother heard that description he would have been flippant.

What would he have said about the world around him today? Of course he'd probably have seen more of it than Sherlock did anyway. Maybe he knew of John? Mycroft knew of almost everyone, but the thought seemed preposterous as Mycroft would have been dead at least 10 years before John was born -unless John was older than he thought.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes closed as he thought; he was trying to keep the irritation from creeping up on him as he waited. What the hell was taking him so long? All he had to do was dry off and get dressed. Unless...

Sherlock stopped, his eyes opening once more. They glided from the floor, up the wall to the ceiling. What if he was...doing something private? He bit his lip lightly. The thought of John sitting on the edge of the bed, resting on his bath towel, flesh still wet, face flushed red, lips parted. His pale skin hot to the touch but not enough to evaporate the droplets of water that raced down his chest and stomach. He was half tempted to hide himself and go up and see what he was doing. To see if his suspicion would be confirmed or not, but he knew that if John were to find out he'd never be forgiven.

The first night of John living there had been the same. Sitting on the bottom of the bathtub, the hot water rushing over him. Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub, curious about the man whom had bought the house so many had run away from. He wanted to continue his haunting, but something stopped him. The expression of fear on his face as he was rattled, but there was something else. Defensiveness. He was defensive, and determined not to be run out. That was what had brought Sherlock into his curiosity. That look of defiance that screamed _you will not chase me out_. Like his own little challenge.

He had given him little touches. Little connections with himself, disguised as nothing more than the wind. Even those touches were enough to send people running in the past, but not John. No, instead Sherlock had been taken aback when he saw that he had gotten an erection from it. Whether it be from the fear, or the touching. The ghost had felt very confused and had realized that John wasn't the same as the others. John didn't panic when he was touched, in fact, he seemed as if he'd welcomed it.

Sherlock bit his lip, bringing his thumb up. He crossed his legs, keeping them propped up on the table, feeling awkward. He wasn't a homosexual. He never had been. He'd never even felt interested in having a relationship with anyone except...

But now here he was, reflecting back on one of the most interesting people he had met in a long time, Even in his own life, psychopaths didn't seem half as interesting as John had. Part of him wanted to watch, to see what would the other man did, how he'd react; the other part of him wanted to grab him by the throat and force him out of the house that night. Scare him away for good. Drag his hands up and down his fit, fairly muscular body until his stupid little mind got the hint that it wasn't a natural breeze. But he froze. The only thing he could do was follow the shorter man to the bath tub and watch as he scrubbed at himself before placing the drain stopper into the drain and cranking the heat up.

He had felt suffocated before, and he felt twice as suffocated after as he watched the intruder lower himself into the bathtub. He watched as John had started to drift off. He had told himself 'Sherlock, just go. Wait till he's done then you can chase him out' but he didn't move much past roosting on the edge of the tub. He reached forward, through the hot water and touched his chest, knowing that he would feel his fingers. John wasn't fully aware -one of the best times to touch someone in hopes to scare them off. When humans are fully aware, they aren't subjective to the paranormal, and he was sure that that would finally snap him out of it.

But it didn't work out the way he wanted it to. Instead, John had moaned to the touch. A sound that made Sherlock's stomach wrench and twist. That was when his eyes opened. Sherlock nearly had withdrawn, the remnant of where his heart would have been leaping at the hazy, lustful gaze in the shorter man's bluish gray eyes. The ghost choked, his hand snapping out to grab the nude man by the throat, desperate to get at least a scream, or a gasp from him, but all he had done was encourage him. John tilting his head back, his eyes sliding closed once more and his legs spreading.

Sherlock felt as if he were burning a fuse, his hand on the man's neck, his breathing caught, burning like fire in his lungs as his eyes darted up and down John's body. The tugging the man did on his erection, the thrusting of his hips causing the water to rush up and over his body. That was when the ghost got the name. _Mary_.

He'd felt sick to his stomach. Sitting on the edge of a tub, watching this man please himself to -no-doubt- the image of his wife; his gyrating hips threatening an overspill of water onto the floor. Desperately he dragged his hand from his throat and pressed them to John's hips, all intent going towards keeping his bottom planted on the bottom of the tub. The ghost ignored his hand becoming engulfed in the nearly scalding hot water; at least until the water that rolled over his fingers turned from clear to white.

Sherlock rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feel of it. The thick, white semen on his fingers, hot to the touch. He had panicked and ripped his hand away, rinsing it off in the wave that had washed it from John's stomach. He'd pushed himself to his feet in a flurry, his head swelling with some emotions he couldn't quite sort out -whether because he hadn't experienced them before or because he had spent so long dead. And it wasn't until John had started crying that Sherlock had realized the extent of the situation he'd imposed in on.

John had been thinking about his wife. His deceased wife. John was alone, not because he was to be joined at a later date by his wife, or he just hadn't married, but because he was a widow.

Sherlock closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, feeling guilt for his mind wandering back on that night. The night he'd let John know that he wasn't alone even after he'd told himself that he was to keep quiet. He wouldn't mind sitting on the sidelines, watching someone grow old and happy -albeit alone- in his home, but it was that single fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe they could cure each others loneliness. As colleagues, or companions. And for a moment he'd let his guard down, no longer hidden just enough for John to hear him.

When he'd gotten to the door, he waited. Usually it was the sound of the footsteps that caused the potential buyers to go screaming for the door, but John hadn't moved. The ghost had half hoped that John would know he was there -after all he'd been dropping hints all day, whether that meant he was just being sarcastic with Mr. Albott or he had known and just didn't care. Everything seemed hopeful until that blasted cat meowed. He hushed it, trying to keep his voice down. That was when all hope that John had known he was there vanished.

The shorter man threw on his closest outfit and ran past him and the cat. But he didn't pursue him right away. He stood there, stiffly in the middle of the hallway. He felt a similar loneliness he was often plagued with in life when someone called him a freak, or spit profanities his way, or reminded him of the fact he had no friends and he would die alone. It was the cat that followed him, stopping at the top of the stairs. Sherlock hadn't moved until John screamed for him to stop following him. But there was no sound of the door opening or closing. John hadn't left for the front door yet.

Curiously Sherlock made his way to the stairs, but when he began walking again the sound of John's retreat was obvious. He shrugged it off the best he could, hardening himself once more. He knew that he wouldn't be able to live with John. He was dead and nothing was going to change that. But still, as John raced across the sopping wet ground to his car, the door left wide open, he couldn't help but feel the need to leave the door open just a crack; in case he decided to come back.

"Hey, you're awfully quiet." John said, walking in. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him, not expecting to see his housemate. He had been so caught up in his memories he didn't even hear him come down the stairs.

"What else am I supposed to do, talk to myself?" Sherlock retorted.

"You do any other time." John made his way for the fridge, slapping the bottom of Sherlock's foot as he passed as a way to tell him to remove his feet from the table. Sherlock obliged without a word.

"I wouldn't eat the eggs." Sherlock muttered, sitting up properly in the chair, turning his attention to the paper that he had slightly crinkled beneath his feet. "I'm sure they have hatched and grown to full size by now."

"Piss off." John replied, bending down to look at the shelves. "I was playing with the cat."

"Oh," Sherlock looked up insulted. "so the four legged beast takes precedent over my needs?"

"Yep, and always will." John grabbed the eggs and some vegetables and shut the fridge door behind him.

"Why is that?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John didn't look at him. Grabbing a glass bowl he opened up a couple of eggs, chopped up some onion and spinach finely and added them to the bowl.

"Because you're dead and the cat's not." He sprayed the pan and let it heat up before adding the egg. Once it was heated up, solidifying the egg on a single side he chopped up some ham and added in some grated cheese, peppers and a little more of the onions and spinach, then neatly folded the egg in half, dropping the heat to low and covering the pan.

"I see, so while I live here and the cat doesn't you've taken it upon your responsibility to pamper the creature." Sherlock said plainly, trying to understand the doctor's reasoning.

"Sherlock, you're a big boy, albeit one that died 50 some odd years ago,"

"81 in two months." Sherlock replied almost in a huff. John turned, looking at him, a small smirk coming to his lips. Sherlock's stomach twisted as his eyes caught it, a thought running through his head.

_Don't you dare-_

"Would you like me to hold it for you while you go pee-pee?" He questioned, his voice borderline baby-talk. Sherlock's eyes closed, feeling mocked, but he wasn't going to let this sassy bastard knock him down.

"Only if you'll be careful of how you handle me, I know how you like to get rough handling other men-" John laughed, shaking his head.

"Not gay."

"Don't offer." Sherlock returned the smirk. "Besides I doubt you'd know how to handle my piece." Sherlock flipped through the paper, looking at the classified ads -at least the people couldn't massacre ads to sell animals.

"I was a doctor in the military, I've seen enough _pieces_ to make a Urologist seem inexperienced." John crossed his arms, looking at the ghost. "So unless it's covered in scales and splits off into two separate limbs halfway down the shaft with hundreds of little heads on each limb, then I doubt I would have difficulty handling it." He boasted, a smile on his face. Sherlock couldn't help but feel the need to prove him wrong, but he was sure that the doctor was right. "Let me guess, uncircumcised?" John smirked. Sherlock felt his cheeks redden at the guess. He looked down, stuttering a bit before stopping, clearing his throat.

"Yes." John smiled smugly, staring at him.

"I knew it." He turned back, flipping his eggs over, checking the middle.

"I am certainly glad you guessed right almighty penis medium," Sherlock muttered embarrassed. "now I can sleep at night." John laughed, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth.

"Penis medium." He grabbed a plate and scooped out his food, cutting it in half with the spatula. Turning off the stove he grabbed a glass of milk and sat down across the table from Sherlock. "So, before when you said you have no interest in male or females, did that mean that you just...weren't attracted to them or you had other things on your mind?" John cocked an eyebrow, taking another forkful into his mouth.

"I had other things on my mind." Sherlock said simply.

"So you never found any woman or man attractive ever." John swallowed, clearing his throat before taking a drink of his milk. Sherlock looked up from the paper and just stared at him. After a minute he placed the paper back on the table and leaned back.

"I had an interest in one woman." He replied, looking off across the room, his eyes peering through the window to the ocean. "She was interesting; smart and beautiful. A wronged party in a case I had been hired for. Her former lover was seeking to marry another woman, royalty. His marriage was supposedly in jeopardy. Irene Adler, her name was. She had a photograph of her and this man. I never pursued anything with her." He pushed the paper off to the side. "She ended up happily married and I was left with a photograph."

"You never pursued any other woman?" John looked at him, feeling sympathetic.

"No, nor did I pursue a man either." Sherlock confirmed.

"Surely you must have...fooled around." John put his fork on his plate. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. In the end he sighed, shaking his head.

"No. I didn't have intercourse with anyone. I took on a vow of celibacy lest I jeopardize my job." He sat up straight, running his fingers through his hair. "I needed to focus on the next case, not..." His face twisted a bit as if he were unable to say it. "who will make me feel good next." He spat.

"Died a virgin at the age of 32." John frowned. Irritation bristled through Sherlock, his nose crinkling.

"Don't judge me for my actions, I had enough to deal with besides getting my genitals wet-"

"I wasn't judging you! I wasn't-" John rose his voice, trying desperately to defend himself. "I just...I just thought that it's a damn shame." John added as Sherlock calmed down. "I mean, yes, your passion was catching and solving mysteries, but there's more to life than that. Love, passion, sharing it with another person." John looked at his plate. "It's terrifying and absolutely wonderful and it's just a damn shame that anyone would die before that." Sherlock stared at him. John seemed sincerely upset that he hadn't had an intimate moment before he died. It baffled him a bit. No one cared whether Sherlock had had sex, or was in love, or had dreams and aspirations outside of his normal line of work. He was known as the _Psychopathic Consulting Detective; _he had no interest in anything else.

And he had believed it. For many years he had believed everything that everyone said. He didn't need anything but someone to murder someone else, or a child to go missing, or someone to steal some precious heirloom. But here he was, an average, widowed man, straight -as far as Sherlock was concerned- feeling sorry for him never getting a chance to enact on his passion, or be deflowered or whatever word was best used for it.

"I've had no interest." Sherlock replied, looking away. And it was true. He had no interest; not until now. Suddenly John's phone went off, the ring echoing through the room, making the ghost jump a bit, his eyes sliding shut. He hated that. He absolutely hated that bloody phone more than anything in the world.

"Hold on," John stood up and pulled his cellphone out of his pants pocket. Sherlock watched as he made his way for the window, answering the call. "Hello, John Watson. Ah, Harry," He smiled, leaning against the wall. "Sorry I didn't check the Caller ID. I knew it had to be either you, Clara, Molly or Anderson...no. Nope...I'm fine, just a little tired lately." He smiled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Halloween party?" Sherlock perked up a bit, looking up. Normally he ignored the doctor when he pulled his phone out but the mention of Halloween had peaked his interest. Standing up he walked around the table and pressed his ear to the other side of the phone, smooshing John against the wall a bit. John laughed lightly, trying to push him off and failing. "Would you bugger off?" He whispered, putting his hand in Sherlock's chest.

The good thing about being taller than his housemate was his advantage at being an arms length away, yet still have the neck length to keep right up against John. "No I wasn't talking to you." John focused back on Harry, still trying to push the deceased detective away from him. Sherlock grabbed his hand, gently pulling it out of reach, his black curls brushing against John's cheek. "Why do you want a Halloween Party? Are you sure your house is going to be able to hold all of those guests?" He gave up, letting the detective listen in on the conversation.

"Well it might be the last Halloween I get to see." Harry replied sounding a bit solemn. John frowned.

"Don't talk like that Harriet. When do you have to start the chemotherapy?" Sherlock groaned, wanting to get the small chat out of the way. John always got so sidetracked when it came to conversations with his sister, but he didn't say anything -Harry and Clara still had no idea he even existed.

"After my radiation is over. I don't want to do it anymore, John." She whined. "I'm burnt all across the hips and it burns when I pee. It's just...it sucks."

"I know but you'll make it through, you always were the most stubborn out of both of us." John attempted to joke, although his smile was forced. "I know a diet that you'll hate, but it'll work."

"John, I'm dieing of cancer and you want me to lose weight?" She groaned.

"No, no, just...listen. Research has shown that fasting is able to catabolize tumors. Some people go water fasting but sometimes it's not enough. Mix that with juice fasting." He explained. "Juice fasting rebuilds and replenishes the body with nutrients and promotes healing. Cancer fights for the body's resources. You lose the weight when you have cancer because the cancer is consuming the glucose in your blood. Just drink 2 to 5 glasses of juice a day, but you have to have leafy vegetables like spinach, chard and parsley to support the bodies immune system. You and Clara have that juicer still, right?" She hesitated, staying quiet for a moment before speaking.

"Yeah, I don't like the sound of it." She admitted. Harry had always been a _eat meat and fruit regularly_ type of person. She preferred solid food.

"It's a pain in the ass." John agreed. "I did it with Mary when we first found out."

"Didn't seem to work for her." Harry replied plainly. John frowned, swallowing hard. He nodded.

"There were...other complications that were involved with Mary. You're not too far in, and with the Chemo you should be fine. Just...drink the juice, go on the fast for the time you are doing the chemo, start now if you want. Eat raw nuts and seeds, that should help support your body against the side effects of the chemo." He licked his lips, worried, then decided it would be best to change the subject -the detective's breath on his shoulder was making him feel awkward. "So the Halloween party. What did we have planned for that?"

"Right, well I was thinking dual joint party. Hold the first half here, maybe the last half at your place?" She opted. John paled a bit, biting his lip.

"I don't know, there's a lot of nothing here."

"But you have like...tons of space. Outside, by the ocean. Places for people to sleep if they get smashed. It's perfect." _Yeah, but I have a ghost here_. John thought, idly reaching up, playing with one of Sherlock's buttons on his shirt subconsciously.

"It's not because half of the people in Bristol think it's haunted, is it?" He questioned, although he knew the answer. People thought that his house was haunted and they wanted to have a Halloween party in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere with alcohol and Ouija boards and stuff like that. Which meant he would have to hide Sherlock away for the entire party and he didn't think he could do that. It wouldn't be fair. "I'll have to think about it, see if the old house will withstand the guests and if there's enough room for people to stay over in case we do end up having a scandalous night of imbibing alcohol." He forced a smile, but he already knew the answer. No. That was simple enough, but he didn't want to be the jerk and shoot down Harry's plans before even thinking about them -or seem like he was.

"Alright, I hope you say yes, because I have some epic plans all sorted out." The smile on her face was obvious through the tone in her voice, and already John felt like a jerk for having to say no. "I'll let you go, you think on that and call me back or text when you figure out the answer. I have to go pick up Clara at the Gynecologist anyway."

"TMI Harry," John chuckled. "I'll talk to you later." And with that he hung up, tucking his phone back in his pocket. He gently pushed against Sherlock's chest to make him back up, but the detective was already making the move.

"Halloween party." Sherlock shifted.

"Yeah, as you heard, Harry wants us to have half of it here." John turned and retook his seat to finish eating his -now cold- breakfast.

"Are you going to say yes?" Sherlock looked at him, figuring that the shorter male wouldn't.

"No." John shook his head, shoveling some food into his mouth. Sherlock blinked, being quiet for a moment.

"Why not?"

"Because you're here." John chewed and swallowed, using a napkin to wipe his mouth.

"So you're going to pin the blame on my existence."

"No I'm trying to be considerate." John put his fork down, feeling agitated by the ghosts habit of twisting words. "If people come here, you have to go into hiding and I don't think it's right you have to hide in your own house. So the answer's no."

"Who said I have to hide?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John stopped and looked up at him shocked at what he was suggesting.

"Sherlock you're a ghost! I told them the house wasn't haunted so they wouldn't come over and poke and prod at you and now you want to just...flash off that you exist?!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing irritatedly.

"John, All Hallows Eve or Samhain is the celebration of the dead." John's features switched from shocked to confused. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sarcastic, mocking smile stretched across his face. "On Halloween the ghosts of the dead are able to mingle with the living, the dead walk among us, malevolent spirits pass through the veil into the world through Ouija boards on this night because the realm of the living is closer to the realm of the dead on this night than any other night?" John continued looking at him slightly confused. "For Christ's sake John!" Sherlock boomed. "I'll be a real boy!" He slammed his hands on the table. "Every Halloween the dead roam the Earth! Children wear masks to keep hidden from demons and other ghouls who would sooner steal them away! John this is the one day a year I can leave this property and explore! Invite your guests, I will be human, I will be whole, I will be able to go with you wherever you drag me!"

John's breath caught in his throat, imagining driving the ghost around Bristol. Driving him to his _sisters_ house!

"Nope, nope." John shook his head. "Nope, Sherlock, nope. Not going to happen." He pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock looked at him taken aback then grabbed his shoulders.

"John, I have been trapped in this house for 80 years. That's 80 years too long. I need to get out, I need to see what the world has to offer. I need to be free for a night!" He hissed, his eyes burrowing into John's sternly.

"Why don't you just walk out and walk to Bristol then?" John opted. Sherlock groaned, pulling away.

"John it's a 3 hour walk, by the time I get to anything worth while I have to make my way back to the house before the sun comes up. It hardly leaves me any time to do anything." He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. "Just this once, it doesn't have to be every year, I just..." He stopped, his throat feeling tight as he swallowed back.

"What do I tell them?" John looked at him, feeling slightly guilty but over all worried about the plan of action.

"I'm a friend, distant friend maybe. John you're smart, think of something." John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He still wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not, but Sherlock was right. Being stuck in this house for 80 years must have been torture, especially to someone like Sherlock. It would be enough for a night, and until then John could educate him just enough to make the detective slip into public unnoticed. It was only fair.

"Fine, I'll think of something, but you have to learn how to read the newspaper at least." John pointed at him before taking his phone out again. Sherlock smiled, feeling an odd spark of excitement course through his body. Walking around the table, John grabbed the chair nearest to where Sherlock had been sitting and grabbed the newspaper. Still focusing on his phone he sent Harry a text that simply said "Ok".

It was just Halloween, things couldn't get messed up too bad in a single night, could they?


End file.
